


What Comes After

by CracklPop



Series: What Comes After & Assorted Side Stories [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Modification, Eventual Happy Ending, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Non-Canonical Character Death, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 07:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19372180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: To save Stiles' life, alpha werewolf Derek Hale bites and turns him. Neither of them expects Stiles to change in the way he does. Reeling from personal tragedy, Stiles has a hard time coping with his new life. Derek, determined to reclaim what he's lost, starts down a dark road, taking his pack with him. Set at the end of S2.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags! This fic is dark(ish), and involves a/b/o tropes. Turn back if the vibe you're getting isn't your thing. Hm, what else? Oh, this fic doesn't exactly use the canon Teen Wolf definition of 'omega.' And...Derek's not a nice guy in this. I like a good Sterek, but this isn't that.

The thing with Derek started next to a dumpster behind the bar where Stiles had first used his fake ID successfully. That was always how he referred to hooking up with Derek—their _thing_ , like even in the beginning he knew it was never going to be a relationship. Stiles was drunk that first night, feeling a little left out by Scott’s single-minded pursuit of a summer of self-improvement, feeling a little depressed at how quickly and easily Lydia and Jackson had reunited, feeling a little lonely at his father’s seemingly endless late nights and double shifts and the empty house. 

So when Derek caught him stumbling out of the bar and growled something typically curt and aggressive at him, Stiles pushed back. Somehow Derek’s usual move of pinning Stiles against any handy vertical surface and threatening him turned into pinning Stiles against an alley wall and shoving his tongue down Stiles’ throat. 

Stiles jerked back in surprise, and his head met a hard, brick surface, trapping him against the unyielding push of Derek’s firm lips and wet tongue. Derek swallowed Stiles’ startled yelp, licking into his mouth with determined pressure. Stiles froze for a second, unsure if he wanted to be kissed, or if what Derek was doing could be called kissing. Then his brain caught up and thought, _Fuck, yeah, this is Derek fucking Hale and he’s hot and built and…his dick feels huge, holy_ fuck…. 

So Stiles submitted to the forceful exploration of Derek’s tongue and fingers, hearing someone moaning and realizing long minutes later that he was the one making those noises. 

Derek moved on from mauling Stiles’ mouth to working Stiles’ pants open and taking his hard, excited cock in a firm grasp. Stiles couldn’t help the high-pitched, breathy sound that escaped his lips at the foreign sensation of someone else touching him. Dimly, he heard Derek chuckle before starting to jerk Stiles with a quick, workmanlike rhythm. It got the job done despite the dry friction in an embarrassingly short time, and Stiles was left gasping, his stomach striped with milky fluid and his knees weak. 

Then Derek was pushing him down and his wobbly legs gave way without much protest, bringing Stiles’ face up against Derek’s unexpectedly bare dick. Somehow, Derek had already gotten his fly open and his cock out, and it rubbed against Stiles’ cheek, trailing a line of hot liquid in its wake. 

“Open your mouth,” Derek said, the first words he’d spoken since they had entered the alley. Stiles swallowed and didn’t respond right away. Sure, Derek was attractive and, sure, they’d had a few minutes of tentative friendship here and there, but that didn’t mean Stiles was prepared to have his first real sexual experience be sucking Derek off in a dirty alley behind a run-down bar. 

“Uhm,” Stiles got out, hesitant. Derek painted his pre-come over Stiles’ swollen lips and brushed a hand through his hair, longer now than it had been in years. 

“Come on, Stiles, don’t leave me like this. Can’t you give me a little…reciprocation?” Derek coaxed, his voice suddenly softer. Stiles blinked up at him, at his beautiful green eyes and his sharp cheekbones and his stupidly handsome face. He opened his mouth and Derek slotted the head of his cock right in, without hesitation. 

Stiles sucked a little, unsure. He liked the feel of it, the weight and the shape. It filled his mouth and put to use his oral fixation. For a second, Stiles thought the pen manufacturers of the world should thank Derek Hale for finally giving Stiles something to put in his mouth that wasn’t the end of a ballpoint. The idea made him smile a little and Derek pushed his hips forward. 

Stiles made a muffled noise, not quite protest, but not approval, either. 

“Get it wet,” Derek said, still quiet. “It’ll make it easier.” 

Stiles tried to nod as he licked up and down Derek’s shaft, finding the movement of his lips easier and easier. When Derek urged him to start sucking again, Stiles was able to move his head up and down and he tried to take in as much length as he could. Derek let him continue for several minutes, Stiles’ jaw starting to ache with the unaccustomed work. He was ready to pull off and offer to let his hand take over when Derek’s hand tightened in Stiles’ hair. 

“Wh—” Stiles began, unable to articulate around a mouthful of cock. 

“Shh,” Derek said. “Just hold still. I know you’re not very good at this yet, so I’m going to help you.”

“N-n-n,” Stiles protested, arms coming up to push Derek back. Derek kept his grip on Stiles’ hair and used his other hand to capture Stiles’ wrists and push them against the wall. Then he began to move his hips in a steady pace, driving his cock forward and back in Stiles’ mouth, finding his own pleasure. Stiles panicked for a second, unable to breathe, before he figured out how to work with Derek instead of against him. 

Derek didn’t bother to pull out when he came, just kept going until Stiles had ejaculate over his face and in his mouth and down his chin. He spat it out angrily, wrenching his wrists from Derek’s loosening grasp. 

“What the _hell_ , dude?” Stiles snapped. “Where the _fuck_ did that come from?” 

“Are you complaining?” Derek asked, casually zipping himself back up and running a hand down his shirt to smooth it. “You’ve smelled like you wanted it since I met you. Are you telling me you’ve never thought about it?”

“I—that isn’t the point!” Stiles said, voice wavering. He _had_ thought about it. A lot. Often. But that wasn’t…that didn’t mean this was okay. Did it? 

“Okay, Stiles, if you want this to be a one-time thing, that’s fine. My misunderstanding. I’ll see you around,” Derek said, starting to walk away. 

Stiles bit his sore lip, tasting Derek’s come as he watched the werewolf leave with an unhurried stride. He slowly got to his feet, wiping his face off with the edge of his shirt before refastening his jeans. He ignored the wet spatter on his stomach and chest and pulled his shirt down then zipped his hoodie over it. Derek had said it could be a one-time thing. Did that mean Derek wanted to do…it…again? That Derek wanted _Stiles_ again? It wasn’t like everything that had happened had been so bad. Just…just that last part, where it felt like Derek wasn’t listening to him. But the rest of it had been…nice. Good. Amazing, even. And…was he a virgin still? Did blow jobs count? Did hand jobs? 

Stiles licked his lips absently, not sure if he liked the taste or not. He didn’t…. _hate_ it. Maybe he should just try again with Derek. See where things went. It wasn’t every day an insanely hot alpha werewolf came on to him. 

Stiles wasn’t Scott, who was sexting Allison every night and attracting attention wherever he went, or Danny, who had already had three or four boyfriends, at least one of whom was in college. Or…Lydia, who had Jackson, or anyone else she wanted. Stiles grimaced at the last thought. He still joked about his ten-year plan to date her, his fifteen-year plan, his twenty-year plan, but it wasn’t true, not really, not since her dramatic reconciliation with the lizard ex-boyfriend. He didn’t have a plan anymore, he just had a crush and a long future of lonely nights. 

Or…Derek. Maybe. Sex with Derek, if nothing else. At least, that was how it had sounded. Stiles made his way to the diner that was open late, where he’d planned to drink coffee and eat pancakes and sober up before driving home. His dad was at the station again, so Stiles was in no hurry. He eased into a booth in the back and placed his order, sipping black coffee without tasting it and turning things over in his mind. 

\- X -

It was easy, after that, to fall in with what Derek liked. And it turned out that what Derek liked was to have Stiles wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. And however he wanted it. There was something inside Stiles, something shy and needy and receptive, that responded to Derek’s gruff commands and his bruising grip, to having all Derek’s attention focused on what they were doing. Derek always got Stiles off at some point, but it was clear that Derek’s primary interest was Derek. 

Stiles told himself he didn’t mind. He was still having sex—a lot of sex—with an older, hotter dude who could tear out his throat with his teeth. Something about knowing Derek could hurt him and _didn’t_ was inexplicably arousing. After Derek had come down Stiles’ throat or in his ass or on his face, he would usually spend a few seconds absently petting Stiles’ hair or running an idle palm up and down his spine. Stiles loved those times; he sometimes thought he loved them more than the actual sex. 

Derek would tell him things afterward, like how he was going to rebuild the old house, or how he’d looked into making alliances with other packs. One day he mentioned that Peter had left town and his mouth twisted into a bitter curve. 

“He’s probably just going to screw up somewhere else and wait for someone to bail him out. I’m done with that. Someday when I’ve built this pack back up and the Hale name means something again…I’ll have him back out here to rub his face in it.” Derek’s brows drew together in a scowl. “He was such a know-it-all growing up. Always had to have the answers.”

Stiles, no great fan of Peter’s, was still moved to point out, “I think that’s called curiosity, dude.”

Derek’s fingers, which had been resting on Stiles’ stomach, curled into a hard pinch on his side and Stiles jerked in unexpected pain. 

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek reminded him, then pushed up to his feet, leaving Stiles lying on the floor of the warehouse loft Derek had brought them to. Stiles scrambled up after him, tugging on his clothing. 

“Hey, why don’t we…uh, you know, get some lunch or something?” Stiles scrubbed a hand through his hair and fixed what he hoped was a casual expression on his face. For all the time they’d spent together, they still hadn’t done anything outside either of their homes except acts of semi-public sex. In terms of physical intimacy, Stiles was far from virginal, but in terms of dates, he was still untouched. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Derek asked, looking at him blankly. “School?”

“It’s summer break. School doesn’t start for another week. Haven’t you noticed all the times we’ve…um, fucked during the day?”

“Yeah,” Derek grunted. “It’s September. Doesn’t school start in September?”

“In a week,” Stiles repeated, crouching to tie the laces on his shoes. 

“Huh.” Derek rummaged around in the kitchen area. 

“Did you move in here?” Stiles asked, taking a closer look at the space. It definitely looked like it. There wasn’t any furniture, but the power was on and Derek was standing next to a new-looking refrigerator and washing his hands in actual water from a working sink. 

“Yep, a week or so ago,” Derek replied, turning off the water and wiping his hands on an honest-to-god dish towel. 

“Well, look at you, all civilized,” Stiles smirked. “I thought a place had to be condemned for you to consider it home. Not that this place doesn’t come close.” He glanced around at the stray bricks on the ground and the dirt-streaked wall of windows. 

Derek made an angry sound. “I’m not an animal, Stiles,” he growled. “Things have been a little crazy here, but it won’t always be that way. I’m not going to let it be that way—I’m still the alpha. The Hale pack…it’s going to be powerful again.”

“Hey, I know!” Stiles raised his hands in supplication. “I know you’re not a monster. What’s a little fur between friends, right?”

“We’re not friends,” Derek said. 

“Ooookay,” Stiles said slowly, hurt. He wasn’t sure what he smelled like, but Derek’s gaze shot to his face and he crossed the open space to yank Stiles against his chest in a brief, hard embrace. 

“I like what we have,” Derek mumbled into Stiles’ hair. 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, not completely satisfied but placated. “Yeah, me, too.”

“I have a meeting downtown,” Derek said, stepping away. “I’m looking into what it would take to tear down the old house and build something new.”

“Oh, what, right now?” Stiles asked. Derek gave him a curt nod and looked pointedly at the door. 

“See you later,” Derek offered. Stiles shrugged and smiled, that feeling of hurt pricking him again as he rolled open the industrial door and stepped outside the loft. 

\- X -

“I think the Dufort pack is going to agree,” Derek said one night shortly after school had started. Stiles, who had been lying pressed up as close as he could get to Derek, sleepy and sated, reluctantly brought his brain back to full awareness. 

“The who now?” he asked, shifting around in his narrow childhood bed to see Derek’s face. Derek’s eyes were closed and Stiles took the opportunity to look his fill at the perfectly sculpted features. He was too self-conscious to stare dreamily at Derek when he knew the werewolf could see him, and he also knew that Derek never seemed to want to do the same back to him. So he had to do it stealthily. 

“The Dufort pack, in Oregon. I told you I was looking into alliances.”

“Yeeeees.” Stiles ran their conversations back through his mind, trying to remember which of Derek’s post-coital chat sessions had involved pack alliances with Oregon werewolves. He vaguely recalled Derek mentioning that he had contacted an old friend of his mother’s, but he couldn’t bring anything more specific to the surface. 

“Well, they sound like they’re going to agree,” Derek said again. 

“Good?” Stiles ventured. “Uh, just so we’re clear: Agree to what, exactly?”

“The mating alliance.” Derek opened his eyes and frowned at Stiles. 

“The…mating….” Stiles felt slightly short of breath. Surely Derek couldn’t be talking about…about….

“It’s where the alpha of my pack is mated to a wolf from their pack. That’s what forms the alliance. I looked into other kinds of agreements with different packs, but our pack doesn’t have a lot to offer yet, so this was the easiest sell that brought us the most power. With the Alpha Pack on my doorstep, I’ve got to work with what I have, you know?” Derek paused after that uncharacteristically long speech and give Stiles an inquiring look. “I told you this was happening, Stiles.” 

“Uh, no. No, you did not. The alpha of your pack _mates_ another werewolf. That’s you, dude. _You_ are the alpha of your pack. Are you getting…are you getting freaking married?” Stiles wondered if the vise slowly squeezing his chest, depriving him of air, was what Scott used to feel during his asthma attacks. 

“Mated, as part of an alliance,” Derek corrected. 

“But-but you’ll be, like, basically _married_ to someone, right? You’re going to bring another person into the pack as your partner. So…what about…what about this?” Stiles waved his hand between them, his voice taking on a frantic tinge. 

“Stiles,” Derek began, sitting up and giving him a long look. “This is….” 

Stiles gave him several minutes, the silence growing oppressive. 

“This is _what_ , Derek?” he burst out eventually. “What is this _thing_ between us?”

Derek ground his teeth together and stood, jerking on his clothing before he turned back to Stiles. He opened and closed his mouth several times and Stiles waited, feeling a hot, burning wetness gather in his eyes. 

“I guess it’s over,” Stiles said and waited, heart in his throat, for Derek to refute it. Instead, Derek gave a short nod and an abortive reach for Stiles’ hand, then turned around and dropped out the open window. 

Stiles stayed exactly where he was, half sitting, half reclining on his bed. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t _breathe_ , and Derek was _gone_. Stiles pushed himself up with careful, exaggerated movements, feeling like he was a mass of bruises. He winced as he registered the ache in his ass and the now-familiar seep of fluid. Suddenly, Stiles was angry, furious that Derek had left him messy and sore, furious that Derek had deprived him of a final moment of affection or afterglow or whatever the fuck those few precious instances of closeness had been. 

He dragged himself out of the bed and stripped it with ruthless motions, hurling the mass of bedclothes at the hamper in the corner. Stiles paused to inhale a few times then stomped into the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. He let the water run over his face, washing tears and snot and sorrow down the drain. The stream ran cold after a while and Stiles hunched against the sting of it but didn’t get out. 

His father knocked on the bathroom door when he got home from his shift and Stiles didn’t say anything. 

“Stiles!” the sheriff called, rapping on the door with his knuckles sharply. 

“I’m here,” Stiles said loudly, turning off the water and standing there with his skin tight around him and goosebumps all over his body. 

“You okay, kiddo?” his father asked. 

“Fine,” Stiles replied, but his voice broke and he knew his dad heard it. 

“Come downstairs when you’re decent,” the sheriff said, then Stiles heard him going into his own room to change out of his uniform. 

Stiles reluctantly forced himself to towel dry and move into his bedroom. He got on an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and stared at the bare mattress where Derek’s warm body had been less than an hour ago. It was late—he would probably have to be up for school in a few hours. But Stiles heard his dad rooting around the kitchen cupboards and he went downstairs, padding silently on bare feet. 

“Are you sick?” his dad asked, turning. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sick,” Stiles said, sitting at the table and fidgeting with the salt and pepper set. It was a ceramic Batman and Robin pair that he’d gotten as a gift for his mother more than a decade ago, proud that he had found something both awesome and useful. She had been delighted and ignored Noah’s suggestion that they only use them for _special occasions_ —i.e. times when they didn’t have the possibility of adult company. When she had died a few years later, Noah had started keeping them out all the time. 

“Something going on at school? Anxiety?” Noah placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of his son and joined him at the table. 

“I guess. Just can’t sleep.” 

“How’s Scott doing?” 

“Good. He’s good. Allison’s back from France with her dad.”

“Scott’s happy about that, I bet,” Noah grinned into his cup. 

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed and drank a hasty gulp of his drink to try to trick the tears into staying down. 

“I know we had a rough time a few months ago, son,” Noah said carefully, not explicitly reminding Stiles of the job suspension, lies, and general mistrust that had marked his sophomore year. “And I know I’ve worked some pretty long hours lately. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you.”

Stiles bobbed his head in acknowledgement, keeping his face down. 

“If you’re—if something’s going on, I need to know….” Noah scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I want to trust you, Stiles.”

“I know, dad,” Stiles raised his eyes to meet his father’s. “It’s not…I’m just…sad. There was…someone…and now…now there isn’t.” 

“Oh, kiddo.” Noah’s face was lined with sympathy and he gripped Stiles’ hand hard for several seconds. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Stiles said. “It was casual, I guess. I mean, for h-him it was casual.”

“Him?” Noah raised his eyebrows and Stiles flushed. 

“I know we haven’t exactly talked about…stuff.”

“I don’t care what you—who you…I want you to be happy, and I want whoever you’re with to treat you right,” Noah said seriously, giving Stiles’ fingers another squeeze.

“Yeah, well, there’s no one in the picture now, anyway,” Stiles muttered. 

“Listen, kid, if you want to stay home tomorrow, you can. I’ll call it into the school. You can, I don’t know, play video games and try to forget about it.” Noah searched his son’s face, looking fond and worried. “I’ll knock off early, I promise. We can get pizza.”

“Don’t think this is an excuse for you to load up on pepperoni,” Stiles chided, but he was smiling a little. 

“It absolutely is an excuse to eat pepperoni,” Noah said, brushing a hand over Stiles’ shoulder as he stood. “You should get to bed, even if you don’t want to go to school tomorrow. It’s late.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles put his mug into the sink then turned and wrapped his father in a long hug. Noah’s arms came around him in return, hands warm and reassuring on his back. “Thanks, dad.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles elected to go to school the next day, even though he was tired and his dad kept giving him searching looks. It wasn’t that Stiles was eager to face another day of bored, gossipy teenagers so much as he was keen to avoid another day of solitude in his house. Better to try to distract himself with hours of class time and socialization than with single-player video games and Wikipedia rabbit holes. 

The day passed with excruciating slowness despite the presence of hundreds of other students, though, and Stiles was starting to regret passing up the chance to be alone. He drew meaningless patterns on his notebook and stared at the board at the front of the room without really seeing it. In the desk ahead of him, Scott looked ready to doze off. 

Stiles heard a faint buzzing noise and Scott jerked up, hand reaching surreptitiously for his phone. Whatever he saw made him tense and type rapidly under his desk. Curious, Stiles angled to try to see what Scott was writing. It was too far away to make anything out and Stiles settled back into his seat, leg bouncing impatiently as he waited to see what Scott would do next. The period was nearly over, and Scott was still staring at his partially concealed screen when the teacher wrote out their homework assignment. Stiles dutifully copied it down for himself and for Scott, tearing the extra page out of his notebook and handing it forward to his friend. 

“What’s up?” Stiles demanded as soon as the bell rang. Scott grabbed his arm and dragged him from the classroom. Stiles rubbed his skin where Scott had gripped too hard and raised his eyebrows. 

“There’s a problem,” Scott said lowly. Stiles nodded with a patient expression.

“Yeah, I gathered that, buddy. What kind of problem?”

“Derek says it’s the Alpha Pack. He finally picked up a scent from Erica and Boyd and followed it,” Scott filled Stiles in hurriedly as they ducked outside, trying to avoid detection in their midday escape from school. 

“Where are they?” Stiles asked breathlessly, jogging along beside Scott. 

“They were being kept at the old distillery, but they’re being moved somewhere else now, in the older part of town, where that bank that was robbed is. You know, the huge one that closed down?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles said, guiding them toward his car with the tacit understanding that it would be easier for them to take his car than deal with splitting up. 

Scott hopped in the passenger’s side and waited for Stiles to get the Jeep started. They didn’t talk much on the way over—Scott was glued to his phone in case Derek gave him any more updates, and Stiles thought uncharitably that Isaac and Jackson could find their own way over if they hadn’t started already. 

“So you’re helping Derek out with the Alpha Pack now?” Stiles asked into the silence. 

“Sort of,” Scott replied with a half shrug. “I mean, I don’t want Erica and Boyd to die, and I feel like Isaac…he’s been through enough, you know? If I can help protect them, I will.” Scott paused. “But I’m not, like, joining the pack or anything.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. 

“Head toward the old bank,” Scott directed. “Derek’s last text said he was going to ambush them from the building across the street.” 

Stiles assumed Derek would be too busy battling over his lost betas to give Scott any more specific information, so he guided the car about a block away from the bank and parked it in an alley. He and Scott moved quickly but cautiously to a spot a few buildings away from the bank and paused, looking for signs that Derek’s plan was underway. The closed drugstore across the street from the bank was clearly locked and its windows were intact. 

Stiles looked at the bank and saw the front doors ajar, the chain that had held them together dangling and broken. Scott had his head tipped to the side as he tried to hear or smell something that would help. After a minute he nodded toward the bank. 

“I don’t know what happened to Derek’s ambush, but I hear at least seven or eight heartbeats in there.”

“Right, okay,” Stiles said, nervously rolling his baseball bat between his palms. The thought of charging into a werewolf battle royal was, frankly, terrifying, but Derek was in there and Scott was already moving toward the doors. Stiles started after him, hissing, “Scott, wait! Don’t just run in—”

Whatever plan Stiles might have formulated was lost as Scott darted into the bank without looking back. Stiles swore and jogged around the side of the building, hoping to find a less conspicuous method of entry. The baseball bat was better than his fists, but not nearly as much help as Scott’s werewolf defenses. 

There was a broken window near the back that Stiles was able to get through and he ignored the bloody scratches down his side where the jagged glass had ripped through his shirt. He carefully crept through the darkened bank offices until he came to the entrance of a spacious, high-ceilinged lobby. He saw Derek first, claws out, features shifted, and snarling as he faced an alarmingly large and muscular alpha werewolf. Stiles counted four pairs of alpha-red eyes in addition to Derek’s and felt an icy wash of fear. 

Erica and Boyd, both battered-looking and dirty, were back-to-back fending off a barefoot alpha with long, dark hair and a younger werewolf whose eyes glowed red. Scott and Isaac were being expertly contained by an alpha who seemed able to sense where the beta wolves’ attacks would come before they even moved. 

Stiles swallowed hard, not liking the way the confrontation was going. His eyes were drawn toward Derek, who had been backed against a pillar and whose angry hits to the giant alpha seemed to have less and less effect. Stiles gripped his baseball bat and prepared himself to run to Derek’s defense. He was partway across the open floor when he heard a scream of pain and his attention was caught by the sight of Isaac staggering away from the alpha he and Scott had been fighting, clutching a hand to his chest and streaming blood. Stiles hesitated, turning toward Isaac. Before he got to the injured werewolf, Scott growled in challenge and leaped at the alpha who had hurt Isaac. 

Stiles froze, horrified, as Scott’s jump took him directly into the path of the alpha’s claws. The alpha slashed across Scott’s torso with casual and practiced brutality, then caught his falling body by the head and snapped his neck. Scott fell to the marble floor with a wet thump and Stiles found himself running to his friend’s side without considering any danger to himself. 

There were shapes moving to the right and left of him, snarls and cries and, inexplicably, police sirens, but Stiles didn’t truly register any of it—he dropped to his knees by Scott’s motionless form and swept desperate hands over Scott’s body, still sluggishly bleeding. 

“Scott, Scott, get up, get up, I’ve got to get you—I need help—Scott….” Stiles narrowly avoided being kicked in the head by Boyd as he dodged a punch and he realized he had to get Scott out of the lobby, he had to get him somewhere safer, somewhere he could recover. Stiles dragged Scott’s limp body to a corner partially shadowed by two pillars and tried to arrange his limbs more comfortably. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Stiles repeated over and over in a frantic, low voice. He put trembling fingers on top of Scott’s carotid artery, feeling for the pulse that would let him know it was going to be better. Nothing. He pressed on the other side, then on Scott’s wrists. Stiles felt a scalding-hot liquid falling steadily over his knuckles and splashing onto Scott’s pale face and realized he was sobbing. He pressed his ear to Scott’s mangled chest and felt nothing more than torn fabric and damaged skin. There was no heartbeat, no movement. 

Stiles was hunched over Scott’s still figure, hands clenched uselessly in the shredded remains of Scott’s shirt, when he heard a voice that made him jerk up and spin around. 

“This is the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department!” The sheriff’s voice carried over the more animalistic sounds of fighting werewolves and Stiles felt a shot of sick terror in his stomach. His father _could not_ be here. “Lay down your weapons!”

Stiles struggled to get his feet under him, leaving Scott and the baseball bat and any thoughts other than getting Noah Stilinski out of the bank, away from the danger. A distant, still-functioning part of Stiles’ brain noted with growing distress that the sheriff appeared to be without backup, and he bolted toward his father with speed born of unadulterated fear. His human abilities were far outmatched by those of a werewolf, though, and the alpha that had been pinning Derek against a pillar and beating him repeatedly in the face tossed Derek’s weakly struggling body aside and was at the sheriff’s side while Stiles was still running toward him. 

The giant alpha reached down to encompass the sheriff’s throat in one meaty hand and squeezed it the way Noah Stilinski had once squeezed a stress ball. Stiles reached his father and screamed in anger and grief, launching himself onto the werewolf’s back and trying to hurt him any way he could, jabbing at his eyes, ripping at his ears, wrapping both hands around his thick neck and trying to stab at any vulnerable part of it. 

Through it all, the alpha paid no more attention to Stiles than he would a gnat. With easy, almost lazy movements, the shifter dug his claws into the sheriff’s chest, past his uniform, past his skin, through his muscle, and right up to his frantically beating heart. Stiles wailed when the alpha closed his fist and ripped open Noah’s chest like a kid tearing into a wrapped present. 

Then the werewolf simply let the sheriff’s body collapse in a tangled heap of limbs and splintered ribs. He reached back with a hand coated in Noah’s blood to grip one of Stiles’ arms. Stiles felt his ulna snap as the alpha dragged him down, then felt more bones break as he was thrown against the unforgiving surface of the bank floor. He lay there panting, in pain beyond anything he had experienced, his face streaked with tears and blood as he stared at the vacant, open eyes of his father. The horror and shock gathered in his chest and Stiles felt like his lungs were filled with fluid; he tried to breathe but found no air. 

He thought he heard gunshots and attempted to see beyond Noah’s blank face, but a booted foot came at him and all Stiles registered was unbelievable agony, then his vision darkened and failed. 

\- X -

Someone was calling for him. Someone was calling his name and he knew the voice and he wanted to answer it before it was too late. 

“…Stiles! Stiles, wake up. You have to get up, Stiles. Get. Up.” The tone of command was familiar and…welcome, somehow, and Stiles tried to make his heavy eyelids lift. He managed to open one eye partway and saw a very blurry version of Derek’s face. 

“D-Der,” he slurred through what felt like a throat lined in shards of glass. 

“We don’t have time for this, Stiles,” Derek said, his face still partially shifted and even more angry-looking than usual. Stiles’ head was spinning and he knew there was something…something he should be remembering….

“Mmmmm,” he groaned, trying to move something other than his eyelids and failing. 

“You’re…really hurt. The alpha Ennis nearly killed you. I can give you the bite and it might save you from dying, but I have to know you want it.” Stiles heard the words Derek was saying, but they sounded ludicrous. How could he be dying? He was…he was…his father…. Stiles tried to frown and found he couldn’t feel his face anymore. Was Derek right? 

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice was sharper and Stiles blinked back at his still-fuzzy face. “The bite might heal you. Do you want it?”

Stiles struggled to think clearly. His father…something…. No, Derek said he needed the bite. Werewolf. Stiles would be a werewolf. Or he could die. He didn’t want to die. Better to be a werewolf like…like Scotty. That same sensation of edging toward something bad swept through him. Something about Scott…something about his dad….

“Stiles, answer me, please,” Derek had taken on a frantic tone and Stiles managed to move his head in a jerky half-nod. 

“Want it, Derek,” he whispered. “Do it. Don’t wanna die. My dad…where’s my dad?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Derek said, sounding oddly stiff. Stiles blinked up at him again, then saw the flash of Derek’s wolf teeth coming down on his wrist. 

“…hurt?” Stiles breathed out seconds before the sharp incisors bit deeply into the flesh of his arm. His question ended in a brief yelp before he passed out again. 

When he came to for the second time, he felt more like he’d had a hard day at lacrosse practice and less like he’d been kicked repeatedly in the head. His wrist throbbed, though, and Stiles lifted his arm to stare at the raw, bloody imprint of Derek’s teeth. 

He tried to sit up and found he was bound to a large, comfortable bed. Stiles squinted down at the heavy chain that ran across his midsection then around at the space he was in. It looked weirdly familiar, and after blinking a few times, Stiles realized it was the warehouse loft Derek had first brought him to at the end of the summer. It had furniture now, and also Chris Argent sitting on a folding chair and holding a gun pointed at Stiles. 

“Wha—” Stiles gasped, trying to roll off the bed and not moving more than an inch in either direction. He pulled futilely at the chain. 

“You took the bite,” Chris said levelly, his pale blue eyes never wavering from Stiles. 

“I—” Stiles’ head fell back against the mattress as his memory started to catch up. “M-my dad. Is he—did he—”

“Your father….” Chris’ voice sounded heavier than normal. “He was…killed in the line of duty.”

“I saw him,” Stiles said, the image coming into nauseating focus in his mind. “I saw that-that _monster_ kill him. Just…just tear him open…I…how can I—” Stiles felt his breathing start to speed up and he waited for the panic attack to take over. 

Instead, he got Chris’ hard, reassuring grasp on his uninjured wrist and a steady voice coaching him through measured breaths until he was able to settle his body somewhat.

“You’re okay, Stiles,” Chris murmured, soft voice at odds with his grim visage. “I’m sorry about the chain, but no one was sure how you would react to the transition. It looks like you’re going to make it.”

“Make it,” Stiles repeated blankly. 

“You’re a werewolf. By the morning, you’ll likely have healed even this—” Chris gestured at the dark red marks from Derek’s teeth on Stiles’ wrist. 

“My dad,” Stiles said again, unable to see anything except the broken body of the sheriff, slumped on the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. 

“I got the guy who did it,” Chris said. “Wolfsbane bullet to the brain and another to the heart. Derek cut off his head. The Alpha Pack is done, Stiles, we got nearly all of them, and the last two have run. They won’t hurt anyone in Beacon Hills again, you have my word.”

Stiles emitted a jagged-sounding laugh that ended on a hysterical note. 

“Where’s Scott? I want Scott.” Stiles had an awful picture in his head, one of Scott clawed open and dead-eyed and he wanted it expunged from his brain, replaced with one of Scott healed and alive and there to help Stiles bury his dad. 

“Scott.…” Chris’ face did something pained and complicated and Stiles just shook his head, until the movement turned into a full-body shudder that he couldn’t stop. 

“No,” Stiles whispered, turning his head to hide his face as much as he could. “No, no, no, no, no. Not Scotty. Not my dad. No.”

He couldn’t stop his muscles from spasming, and he shook with fine tremors as the chain seemed to grow tighter and tighter and his lungs burned. Chris was shouting something and then Stiles’ entire field of vision was filled with Derek’s scowling face, and all he could feel was the heat of Derek’s body as he loomed over Stiles and ordered him to _just breathe_ and _calm down_. If there had been any air for disbelieving laughter, Stiles would have been giggling like a loon. Instead, he just gasped wetly and felt twin runnels of tears down his temples. 

Derek’s frown intensified and he put one hand over the still-painful bite mark on Stiles’ wrist and pressed down. 

“ _Calm down_ ,” Derek growled at him, eyes flashing red. Stiles stared up at him, body responding to the command without conscious permission. His oxygen intake regulated itself and he found that he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the hypnotic pull of Derek’s crimson eyes. Stiles’ lips moved, soundlessly shaping words he wasn’t aware of. 

It was hours later, after Derek had disappeared again and Chris had given him slow sips from a water bottle, that Stiles replayed the scene and remembered what he had been mouthing: _Yes, alpha._

He closed his eyes and slid back into sleep after that, confused and nauseated and hurt. 

\- X -

Stiles lost track of time, waking periodically at odd hours wracked with fever and chills and violent aches throughout his body. Sometimes he saw claw-tipped fingers on his own hands and remembered that he was a werewolf. Sometimes he woke up already crying, the blank, lifeless faces of his father and Scott appearing as vivid and recriminating hallucinations in front of him. 

Chris was usually there, and when he was cognizant enough to think about it, Stiles thought that was odd. Where was Derek? Had the rest of the pack also been killed in the ill-fated clash with the Alpha Pack? He knew Chris had told him most of the enemy alphas were dead, but why weren’t any of Derek’s—now _Stiles’_ —pack mates around? 

But those self-aware thoughts were slippery, and swam away from Stiles when he tried to grasp at them, like slickly scaled fish in a murky pond. Chris was stolid, mostly silent company, and he tended to Stiles’ needs without any excess movement or speech. He kept him hydrated and fed him easily digestible bites of food, unchained him so he could use the bathroom and helped him stretch his limbs. 

When Stiles asked why he was still being restrained and isolated, Chris grunted something about the upcoming full moon and Stiles subsided. He remembered Scott’s experience…and then he tried not to remember Scott. Or…or anyone else. 

The sun was setting outside some unknown number of days later when Stiles came fully awake and finally felt ready to face what was happening. Chris was dozing in a more comfortable-looking chair than Stiles had seen last time, blue eyes narrowed to slits and features relaxed. 

Stiles cleared his throat and Chris straightened immediately, alert in a matter of seconds. 

“How long has it been?” Stiles asked, voice rusty. He cleared his throat again. 

“Four days since the bank,” Chris answered. “Tonight is the full moon.”

“Where’s…where’s Derek? Is the rest of the pack okay?”

“Derek has been helping Deaton and Jackson tend to the others. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac made it out of the fight but they were badly hurt. I’ve been making sure you don’t hurt yourself. Or anyone else. Tonight Derek will help you start controlling your shift.” Chris paused. “I’m not sure how much longer Allison and I will stay.”

“Where? In Beacon Hills? Didn’t you just move back?” Stiles had never been particularly attached to Allison’s father, but the thought of another change was heart-wrenching. 

“Allison’s upset about—” Chris paused again. “Well, about what’s happened. We both think it would be healthier for us to start over. Somewhere new for the Argent family. From what I’ve seen, you’re going to be all right, Stiles. You didn’t reject the bite, and you haven’t truly lost control of the wolf, even when you’ve been healing and in pain. Derek should be able to guide you through the rest.”

“But….” Stiles bit his lip. “I don’t know what to do. Not the werewolf stuff. The rest of my life. If my dad—without my dad, what do I—I don’t know what to do.”

“Derek said he would take care of it. But before you worry about anything else, you must learn how to control this new side of you. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, Stiles.” Chris’ expression didn’t suggest he was looking for opposition to that statement. Stiles didn’t feel sufficiently reassured about his future, but he also didn’t want to become a feral creature of the night. 

Chris knelt by the bed and unfastened the chain carefully. Stiles sat up, rubbing at his chest. He saw that the bite Derek had given had healed entirely. In fact, everything felt healthy and nothing gave so much as a twinge when he swung his legs over the side of the mattress and started to stand. Chris rose, as well, and Stiles was surprised at how much he had to tilt his head to meet Chris’ eyes. Had the Hunter always been so tall? 

“Thank you for…you know, everything you did,” Stiles said, holding out his hand. Chris ignored it and pulled Stiles into a short but heartfelt hug. 

“You take care of yourself,” Chris replied sternly. Stiles nodded and leaned into the embrace until Chris gently detached himself and gave Stiles a final nod. 

Stiles slumped back onto the bed once Chris had gone, listening to his footsteps as he went down the set of metal stairs and then out the heavy door. Stiles wasn’t alone for long; Derek loomed in the doorway before Chris’ feet had made it out of the building. 

“Full moon tonight,” Derek told him. 

“Hello to you, too,” Stiles said. 

“Less talking, more listening,” Derek said sharply, and Stiles felt his jaw snap shut before he got another word out. He didn’t feel like he _couldn’t_ talk, more that he wanted to do what Derek asked, because…because…. Stiles frowned. 

He settled on nodding and making a sort of _hmm_ noise of agreement.

“I’m going to teach the pack how to make a full shift tonight,” Derek said. “If you can’t do it, it’s okay. You’re new to this. I just want you to try.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows and made a gesture that he tried to imbue with all his questions— _What’s a full shift? Will I go feral and try to maim and kill innocent creatures? Why haven’t you told me just once that you’re sorry I lost my dad and my best friend? Why did you never sit with me for even ten minutes and act like we had something together, even if it ended? And what will happen to me now?_

“What do you want to say, Stiles?” Derek asked. Stiles blinked back sudden and unexpected tears and shook his head. 

“Nothing.”

“Good. Follow me. We’re going out to the preserve.” 

Derek turned around and Stiles fell into step behind him, realizing only then that someone had changed him at some point from his torn and bloodied clothes into an overlarge t-shirt and a pair of jeans that looked familiar but hung off his hips and trailed on the floor. He wondered if they were Derek’s clothes. Stiles sniffed surreptitiously at the clothing, but it smelled more like his own home than anything else. 

They went down the circular staircase to the main floor of the loft, and Stiles saw Isaac, Erica, and Boyd sprawled together on a wide, deep couch, while Jackson lounged with his usual arrogant grace on the edge of a sturdy coffee table in front of them. 

Derek continued into the room but Stiles halted at the bottom of the stairs, overwhelmed by the scent of so many werewolves. Jackson got to his feet with a smooth, predatory motion and stalked toward Stiles with a smirk. He stepped right into Stiles’ personal space and Stiles couldn’t understand why he had to raise his eyes to meet Jackson’s. 

“Looks like you lost a few inches there, Stilinski,” Jackson observed. 

“What?” Stiles croaked, glancing down at himself. There was a hole in the left leg of the jeans he was wearing, and he abruptly remembered tripping over one of Scott’s shoes a year ago when he was at the McCalls’ house and tearing the pants when he landed on his knees. He was wearing his own clothing…and it was too big. He looked over at Derek, feeling the panic overtaking his nervous system again. 

Derek shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “The bite takes everyone differently,” he offered. “It can be unpredictable. All of you experienced some sort of change in your human form.”

Jackson snorted out a hateful little laugh. 

“Yeah, I got an inch taller and a lot stronger.” He reached out to flick Stiles on the ear and Stiles found his hand moving faster than he’d ever been capable of before. He caught Jackson’s wrist before the other boy could touch him and squeezed until Jackson winced and jerked his arm back. “I guess you’ve gained _something_ ,” Jackson muttered, sliding away. 

“Stiles will ride with me. Jackson, you’ll take the other three. We’ll meet by the old house.” Derek issued the directions in a voice that didn’t invite further conversation, and Stiles watched the betas file out of the loft without questions. He walked over to Derek slowly. 

“Derek, what’s-what’s going on with the, uh, bite? What’s happening to me?” Stiles had to look up and up at Derek and it set something simultaneously excited and terrified aflutter in his stomach. 

“I’ll know more after you figure out how to do a full shift,” Derek responded unhelpfully. 

“Am I not—did something go wrong? Am I…is there something wrong with _me_?” Stiles got out. 

“You’re fine,” Derek grunted, and dropped his warm palm against the back of Stiles’ neck, gripping lightly. Every muscle in Stiles’ body relaxed in unwelcome pliancy at the touch. Stiles tipped his head farther back, exposing more of his throat and resting the weight of his skull in Derek’s hand. Derek made a thoughtful sound and gripped a little harder. Stiles’ knees started to weaken and Derek removed his hand, moving away. 

The sudden absence of that hot grasp made Stiles stagger and he had to catch his balance against the back of the couch. 

“Let’s go,” Derek said, and Stiles couldn’t do anything except scurry after him. He inhaled deeply when they got outside, finding the night air startlingly complex. As he hurried to follow in Derek’s wake, Stiles tried to breathe in whole lungfuls and pick apart all the different strains of scent. He could do this. He could be a werewolf, a strong, powerful werewolf, one who would defend people who couldn’t defend themselves. It was what Scott had been moving toward, what his dad had done his whole career. 

Stiles pushed the memories down, trying to slam a lid on his wild emotions. Grief would have to wait. He wouldn’t be honoring either of them if he lost himself to the uncontrolled wolf. He had to get through this transition. Get through this and then…then he’d mourn. It didn’t stop the tears from leaking out the entire way to the preserve. 

Derek didn’t say anything on the drive over, just glowered out at the dark sky and occasionally glanced at Stiles warily, as if checking to be sure Stiles wasn’t about to sprout claws and try to lunge at him. Stiles remained human-shaped and despondent, though, staring at the grey outlines of trees and only vaguely registering that his old, non-werewolf eyes would just have seen a black blur, not individual branches. 

The rest of the pack was already outside the burned-out shell of the Hale house when Derek and Stiles arrived. They looked unearthly and intimidating in the bright light of the full moon. Stiles hesitated by the car for a few minutes watching them as Derek slammed his own door and moved forward. 

Erica’s long, blonde curls were pale and luminescent, her features sharper and icily beautiful in the play of white light and shadows. Boyd was eerily motionless, a figure of strength and stoicism, while Isaac was a tall, bright angel, his cheekbones shown in sharp relief and his glowing gold eyes unblinking. Jackson’s blue eyes gleamed at Stiles, his expression unapologetically wolfish. He had already shed his shirt and the alarmingly well-defined musculature of his chest was unreal in the moon’s glow. 

Derek stepped toward them then turned to face Stiles, the others flanking him in a semi-circle. Stiles saw three sets of yellow eyes, one of blue, and one a heated, compelling crimson that drew him, however reluctantly, forward. His own vision shifted as he walked to the group, making the world both sharper and less colorful. Small movements appeared in his peripherals and his other senses provided a steady feed of information. _Rabbit, fox, cricket, owl,_ his brain told him, matching each flicker and hint of scent to its owner. 

As he came within arm’s length of Derek, everything else faded away, and all he could feel, hear, and see was the werewolf who had turned him. The extraneous input disappeared, and Stiles thought only _alpha, alpha, alpha._

“What’s wrong with his eyes?” Erica demanded and the question jarred Stiles from his semi-trance. 

“Why are they silver?” Jackson asked, reaching out to lift Stiles’ chin with strong, pinching fingers. Stiles angrily jerked away, bringing his body closer to Derek’s, as if he thought he would find safety there. 

“If taking an innocent life gives you blue eyes, what do you have to do to get silver?” Erica wondered, a speculative, unfriendly look in her own gold gaze. 

“Nothing,” Derek replied shortly. “We’re here to become our wolves. I’ll discuss Stiles’ eyes later.”

Stiles resisted the urge to dart back to Derek’s Camaro and see if there was a mirror in the sun visor. What the hell did silver eyes mean? Did it have something to do with his dad? The black mass of grief and sorrow threatened to bubble up from the pit he had shoved it down and he had to force himself to focus on what Derek was saying before he did something like burst into sobs and run into the woods alone. 

“…inside and feel the animal. Be the wolf.” Stiles tuned back in to hear Derek’s terse description of what he wanted the pack to do. The faces of the pack were, on the whole, frustrated. 

“What does _feel the wolf_ mean, exactly?” Erica asked. 

“Take what you do when you make the first shift. The claws, the fangs,” Derek said. “Expand on it. Feel your fur, feel the wolf’s ultimate expression. Remove the human and embrace the animal.”

Stiles thought Derek was never likely to have much of a career as a teacher and hoped his own upcoming lessons on achieving control of the part-human shift involved more concrete instructions. But he still wanted to learn whatever he could, so he tried to obey Derek’s directions. He thought about those brief moments of consciousness over the past few days when he had woken with claws and lethal incisors and presumably a hairier face. He remembered the sensation of strength, the more straightforward way of thinking, the feeling of greater harmony with the air and the earth. Stiles reached toward those memories, sensing something…something more primitive than his usual idea of himself, something older and yet newer than a human teenager. 

Stiles looked down at his hands to see the claws had returned. He concentrated on his body, and every cell seemed to feel _liquid_ somehow, or less substantial than it should. Then he glanced back up at Derek’s red eyes and let out an involuntary whine. Derek stared down at him with a confusing combination of resignation and approval.

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek said. “Shift.” 

Stiles dropped to his hands, or he tried to, at least, but his body was falling and landing at the same time, and everything felt strange and so loud. He was covered in fabric and it constrained his movements annoyingly. Stiles wriggled out of the binding garments as quickly as he could. He shook his head once he was free and it was an entirely foreign movement, his ears twitching at the way the breeze ruffled their fur. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” came Jackson’s voice. Stiles felt his ears swivel toward the sound’s origin. Part of him—a faraway, shocked part of him—was astonished to see paws where his hands should be, but most of him was accepting of his new form. He was a wolf, and he wanted to explore. He wanted to follow the myriad scent trails that led away from the noxious, chemical, burnt smell clinging to everything in the clearing. He wanted to run and see how fast his legs would take him; he wanted to roll in sweet-smelling grass and hunt for plump little rabbits and, most of all, he wanted to chase after his alpha and taste the cool night air at his side. 

Stiles-the-wolf looked up hopefully at Derek-the-alpha and whined again. Something crossed Derek’s face, a sad, regretful sort of expression, one that made Stiles wonder what kinds of memories Derek was recalling. Then the alpha’s face hardened and he glanced back at the rest of his pack. 

“Stiles figured it out.” Derek’s features rearranged themselves into his part-wolf form and he growled at the others through his fangs. “ _Shift_.” The word was a command and the weight of it made Stiles, who had already obeyed, crouch down low onto his stomach, quivering. The betas seemed to feel it less intensely; Erica actually rolled her eyes as she joined the others in shedding their clothes. 

They were soon partially shifted and, one by one, they found it in themselves to become, as Derek had put it, the ultimate expression of the wolf. 

Stiles watched them become a group of brown-and-grey furred wolves, larger than their all-animal counterparts would be, but still noticeably smaller than Derek’s huge, black-haired wolf. Stiles got to his feet again, but the change in perspective didn’t make Derek appear any less enormous. The giant, dark form stalked toward him, looking bigger and bigger as he approached. Stiles’ head came up to Derek’s shoulder and he fought against a very strong impulse to roll onto his back and tilt his head to the side. Instead, he shivered and stood his ground. 

Derek made a huffing noise and carelessly knocked Stiles over. Then he wheeled around and howled, a true wolf’s call, and leapt deeper into the forest, expecting his pack to follow. The other wolves raced after him and Stiles got back up to dart forward. 

The speed was exhilarating, and Stiles lost himself in the adrenaline rush of vaulting over fallen logs and sliding through slick grasses; they splashed through a shallow creek full of moss-covered stones and up steep hillsides their human forms would never be able to scale. The enormous black wolf led them on and on, until their sides heaved with the force of their panting breaths and their tongues lolled out in cheerful exhaustion. 

Stiles yipped with the simple joy of being alive as he passed the betas to dog Derek’s steps. In his wolf form, emotional pain and misery were dulled, and he was filled with the energy of the forest, its cycles of growth and rebirth, its intoxicating welter of smells and sounds. 

Derek slowed and allowed Stiles to trot next to him. The betas joined them and by mutual agreement they collapsed together in a pile on a large patch of cool grasses. Stiles was wedged against Derek’s side, his legs trapped beneath the stomach of a beta wolf who smelled of leather and aftershave and something faintly reptilian. _Jackson_ , Stiles thought, but the bliss of touching his alpha was too strong for him to move away. 

After an indeterminate amount of time, Jackson shifted slightly and brought his face up to Stiles, running the side of his head along Stiles’ ears and cheeks firmly before sniffing and moving away. Stiles twitched, finding that he now smelled a little like Jackson and not liking it. Before he could roll around to rub the smell off in the grass, the three other betas crept forward, repeating Jackson’s actions. Stiles tried to move away, but Derek uttered a low growl and Stiles froze in place, allowing the others to spread their scents over his fur. When they had finished, Derek crouched over Stiles and licked over his head and ears, then set his teeth to the scruff of Stiles’ neck. 

Stiles went limp in the light hold, instincts he had never felt before telling him to submit to whatever the alpha wanted. He was covered in the smell of the pack and resting in his alpha’s jaws. The wolf was content with the situation, but the person inside was confused and alarmed. Derek’s teeth sank deeper and the human response drifted away; the larger wolf made a satisfied noise and loosened his grip. Stiles curled up with the pack sprawled around him and slept.


	3. Chapter 3

In retrospect, Stiles supposed he shouldn’t have been even the tiniest bit surprised that Derek left all the explanations up to Alan Deaton. The pack had spent the night of the full moon entirely in wolf form, snuggled up against one another in a comforting jumble of limbs and pheromones. Stiles had found the concentration of scents and warmth euphoric, and felt drugged when Derek had herded them all back to the cars and into their clothes. 

In the morning, the pack was assembled in the loft and Beacon Hills’ most mysterious veterinarian was at the heavy sliding door, several books tucked under his arm and an inscrutable expression fixed on his face. 

Stiles was perched on the edge of an armchair, but he jumped up to pace nervously when Derek let Deaton in. Derek jerked his head toward his pack. 

“They’re here to listen,” Derek said. 

“I’m glad you reached out,” Deaton replied evenly, but Stiles thought he could hear an unspoken _finally_ tacked onto the end of his sentence. “As you know, it’s traditional for new werewolves to be greeted and instructed by an emissary or an unaffiliated druid.”

Derek grumbled wordlessly before biting out, “You’re not my emissary.”

“True,” Deaton said, inclining his head in acknowledgement. “But I would have been happy to perform the necessary service as a druid.”

“I thought you were retired,” Derek said. “Never mind. Just explain about Stiles.”

That made Stiles halt in mid stride and he looked up at Derek with wide eyes. Derek sighed and dropped with a smooth movement into the chair Stiles had left. 

“Sit down, Stiles,” Derek ordered, and Stiles automatically sank to the floor at Derek’s feet, resting his back against the chair’s legs. Derek’s hand fell to Stiles’ shoulder and rested there heavily. Stiles found it calming and he felt his heart rate slow as he fixed his gaze on Deaton expectantly. 

The vet’s eyebrows were raised slightly as he took in the way they were seated, but he cleared his throat and moved to the center of the room to stand in front of the pack. 

“I know you’ve heard the Hunters refer to werewolves without packs as omega wolves. It’s not always the way the word has been used in the context of shifter groups,” Deaton started, setting the books down on the table by the wall of windows and pausing there for a second to stare down at them. He drew in a deep breath. “When the Hale pack was killed—”

“The Hale pack still exists,” Derek broke in sharply. 

Deaton inclined his head. “As you say. Let me rephrase that. When the Hale house burned, so did the Hale library of werewolf lore and history. Although I was the pack emissary, my knowledge was surpassed by the alpha Talia Hale and also the pack historian.” 

“Who was that?” Stiles ventured, not wanting to upset Derek further but still wildly curious. 

“Peter,” Derek answered shortly. 

“Still,” Deaton continued, ignoring the byplay, “my education as a druid was far more thorough than the smattering of rumor and superstition the Hunters learn. It’s common knowledge among the supernatural community that werewolves are likely descended from Lycaon, king of Arcadia in the time of ancient Greece, who was the first recorded wolf shifter.”

“When do we get to the part about why Stiles has weird eyes?” Erica demanded impatiently, flicking her hair back. Deaton gave her a steady, unimpressed stare until she lowered her eyes with a scowl. 

“However, over time werewolf traditions and culture have changed somewhat, and things have been forgotten in these modern times.” Deaton glanced over at Derek. “Do you remember your mother ever using the term omega to specifically refer to wolves without packs?”

Derek frowned. “I…no, not exactly.”

Deaton nodded, satisfied. “Talia Hale knew the old ways. Traditionally, wolves in packs were _oikos_ , or family. Lone wolves, who had left their packs or been evicted from them, were called _eremos_. These terms were separate from the pack hierarchical structure, which consisted of the leader, or _alpha_ , and the followers, the _betas_. The alpha was first wolf and the betas were the seconds. In most werewolf packs these days, those are the only two types of wolves. However, there is a third type of wolf, unusual even hundreds of years ago and exceedingly rare today.”

“The omega,” Derek sighed. “I wondered…and his eyes…but it’s a myth. Even the Hunters didn’t really understand.”

“Yes, the omega wolves were guarded zealously from time immemorial, and werewolves were even more careful to hide them from Hunters,” Deaton said. “When the Hunters erroneously co-opted the word to describe lone wolves, the werewolves let them. But over the years, many packs lost the knowledge to create omega wolves, and wolves born to be omegas grew nearly nonexistent.” 

“So they just have silver eyes? What’s the big deal?” Jackson interrupted. 

“Have you ever educated yourself in the art of effective group dynamics?” Deaton asked him mildly, but his expression was cool. 

“Yeah, there’s a leader and sometimes that leader can be deposed if he does a shitty job,” Jackson muttered. 

“Incorrect,” Deaton replied. “Or, perhaps more generously, incomplete. The strongest, the best werewolf packs are those that take advantage of the optimum mix of personalities, not just skills and achievements. What good does it do the group as a whole to have an entire pack of, for example, alphas? The personalities conflict and the group is far less effective because of the uniform desire for power and leadership. Thus the group is vulnerable and in a near-constant state of deadlock. 

“A pack is at its most stable when it has a clear, respected leader who listens to and takes into account the differing views of the rest of the group. Historically, a pack would include more than one family, but there would be only one alpha, a majority of betas, and, in the most desirable packs, one to two omegas. The role of the omega was to…keep the peace. They didn’t take permanent partners. From everything I’ve read, the omegas didn’t make their own families separate from the larger pack relationship. They settled the more volatile pack relationships and kept the group together with firm emotional bonds and the ability to negotiate tricky interpersonal issues.”

“They sound like therapists,” Stiles said. 

“In some ways,” Deaton agreed. “There is a lot about omegas that I know nothing of—I wish I could tell you more. I’ve gathered from bits and pieces of other histories that there was a special ceremony for inducting a new omega to the pack. It was apparently more complex than the usual beta ceremony, and involved separate components. I’m honestly not even sure what would make a human turn into an omega wolf instead of a beta wolf. I once heard that the alphas of long ago could tell what kind of wolf a human would be if turned…I believe Scott would have been capable of an alpha transformation. Not every werewolf can handle it, you know.” 

Deaton’s dark, calm gaze came to rest on Jackson briefly. 

“So Stiles is an omega,” Isaac spoke up for the first time. “That’s why his eyes look different. Why is he short now?”

Stiles winced at the reminder and fought against an unwelcome urge to press back against Derek’s legs. 

Deaton was quiet for a painfully long few minutes, tapping his finger against the pile of books he’d deposited on the table. 

“Omega wolves…they aren’t the hunters or the warriors of the pack. I believe…I think…their vulnerability is their strength in some ways, and their appearance reflects that. I don’t mean this as anything other than an example to illustrate the biology and psychology of the situation, but it might help to think of the way young mammals appeal to our protective instincts.” 

“So Stiles is little and pretty now because we’re supposed to want to protect him?” asked Isaac doubtfully. 

“Hey,” Stiles objected. “I’m not—”

“Have you looked at yourself lately?” Jackson interjected, and Stiles, taken aback at how serious he sounded, shook his head. An unmistakeable look of pity flashed across Jackson’s face and he pulled out his phone to snap a photo of Stiles before tossing it over. Stiles caught the phone with his still-amazing reflexes and then just stared wordlessly at the picture. 

It was his own face, but it was somehow different. His eyes were larger, maybe? His coloring was…it was just _more_ than he remembered it. Every feature was clearer, like someone had run him through a special filter that made him somehow… _appealing_. That was the only word that stuck with him. Stiles shuddered in revulsion. 

“Can’t I…can’t I just be a regular werewolf?” Stiles asked, aware that the term _regular werewolf_ was ridiculous on some level. “A beta, I mean.”

Deaton was shaking his head before Stiles finished his question. “I’m afraid not,” he replied. “Just as the alpha power isn’t accessible to all wolves—even if they take an alpha life—once a human has completed the omega wolf transformation, it’s irreversible.” 

“Oh.” Stiles felt hollowed out and numb. He didn’t recognize his own body anymore, and it was so terrifying he was beyond emotional outbursts. 

“There are a few other things I want to discuss with you privately, Stiles,” Deaton said. 

“What things?” Derek asked, lowering his eyebrows. 

“Things specific to Stiles’ change,” Deaton responded. 

“You can tell me anything you tell him,” Derek argued. 

“He might not feel comfortable—” 

“Stiles?” Derek looked down at Stiles with an expectant air and Stiles made himself shrug in agreement.

“’S okay,” he said. “It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”

Deaton didn’t look happy, but he gave a stiff nod in return. 

“In that case, I’d like the rest of the pack to occupy themselves elsewhere, out of earshot.” Deaton’s look dared Derek to challenge him. 

“Fine,” Derek grunted before addressing his betas. “Go to the old house and start tearing down what you can. Isaac and Jackson know where the gear is. I want as much progress as you can make.”

Stiles was startled out of his gloom at the directive. 

“You got the permits straightened out?” he asked Derek. 

“Yeah. Gonna rebuild as soon as we can. We should be in by winter.” 

“Derek, that’s great,” Stiles said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. For a second, the nightmarish weeks disappeared, and he was back in the bubble where it was just Derek and Stiles and heated skin and hard kisses and nothing worse existed than a bad case of beard burn. 

“I don’t know why you can’t hire people to do this shit,” Erica complained as the betas left the room. 

“Hey,” Derek called after her, his voice low and threatening. All four departing pack members stopped and turned back toward him. “You’ll help with this pack house because I tell you to and _I am the alpha_. Do you understand?” 

They all gave slightly shaken affirmatives and hurried out. 

“Who did you mean by _we_?” Stiles asked. Derek glanced down at him with annoyance, brow furrowed.

“What?” 

“You said _we_ would be in by winter. Who’s _we_?” 

“I told you about the Dufort pack,” Derek said curtly. “The wolf I’m mating. She and I will live in the house, along with Isaac and whichever pack members can join us.”

“If you’re turning more humans to add to your pack, I hope you’ll observe the rituals this time, Derek,” Deaton said, drawing Stiles’ attention back to him. 

Derek made a noise that could be interpreted a number of ways and gestured for Deaton to get on with his explanations. 

“What’s so important that you have to tell us without the rest of the pack?” Derek asked. 

“Stiles, I’m going to check one more time: Are you sure you don’t want to talk alone?” Deaton ignored Derek’s glower with masterful self-possession. 

Stiles felt Derek’s hand again, this time tugging at his hair. It wasn’t a hard pull, but it was enough to bare his neck and the exposure made him feel strangely light-headed. He heard his voice answer Deaton and knew what he was saying would please Derek, which in turn gave _him_ a sense of pleasure. 

“It’s okay, Dr. Deaton. Derek can be here.” 

“I’m going to leave these books with you, Stiles,” Deaton said as he handed over the books he’d brought, apparently accepting Stiles’ response. “They’re history and knowledge of the supernatural world in general and werewolves in particular. Much of it you may already know, but I hope the extra information helps you understand and perhaps better accept your new…circumstances.”

“Thanks,” Stiles murmured, not resisting the pressure of Derek’s hand to rest his head against Derek’s knee. 

“The difference in your height is the most immediately obvious result of the bite, but not only are you still changing physically, there are some emotional components, as well.” Deaton sat down on the coffee table and leaned forward to be closer to Stiles’ level. “Your appearance is one thing, but have you experienced any… _other_ kinds of physiological changes?”

Stiles blinked, puzzled. “I don’t think so? I didn’t even know until Jackson took that photo of me that I looked different. What else? I mean, obviously I can become a wolf now. That seems like a big change.”

Deaton gave him a small, amused smile, making Stiles relax a bit. 

“Yes, the wolf is a big change. But what I’m thinking of would be unique to you in this pack, and it’s…it’s, er, more intimate in nature.” 

Stiles had never seen the vet look uncomfortable, but there was a slow flush creeping up the side of Deaton’s neck and he didn’t quite meet Stiles’ eyes. 

“What—” Stiles suddenly panicked at the implication and put his hand down his pants without thinking about the presence of two other people. “Oh, thank fuck,” he breathed in relief as he felt the familiar equipment. Well…noticeably smaller now, like the rest of him, but still _there_. “Okay, I’m still…I still have…down there. What are you _talking_ about, then?” 

“It’s been suggested that, in addition to their _primary role_ as peacekeepers, omegas might have…they might find it easier to resolve certain _tensions_ in the pack with—” Deaton broke off and searched for words. 

“Please just spit it out,” Stiles begged, anxious. “Whatever you’re going to say can’t possibly be worse than what my imagination can come up with during these pauses.”

“He’s saying that omegas used sex as a way to bond the pack and defuse arguments,” Derek stated. “So I’m guessing whatever physical shit he’s trying to hint at is related to sex.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. 

“Yes, Derek is correct,” said Deaton, lacing his fingers together and shifting a little in apparent discomfort. “You might find that when you’re…aroused, you produce, well, lubrication. Naturally. To, er, ease the…process with the pack members who…have…sex…that way.” 

“Oh.” Stiles’ vocabulary seemed to just consist of the one word now. 

“I’ve never heard of that,” Derek said, but he didn’t sound upset. Stiles glared up at him, his verbal abilities coming back with a vengeance. 

“I don’t see how it matters to you,” he said, angry. “You’re basically getting married, remember? Nothing about my…magical ass should affect you. At all.” 

“Werewolves aren’t actual wolves, Stiles.” Derek was amused and patronizing and it made Stiles want to claw at him. “We don’t necessarily mate for life. My relationship with Isobel Dufort is more in the way of a political alliance than anything else.”

“First of all, I’m not going to sleep with someone else’s _mate_ , regardless of whether or not it’s strictly equivalent to marriage. Second of all, don’t you remember that we _broke up_?” 

“Having interacted primarily with bitten wolves, especially those who have been poorly educated in their heritage, you aren’t aware of the way pack dynamics work in traditional werewolf packs, Stiles,” Deaton said, shooting Derek a reproachful look. “My understanding is that werewolves tend to be quite different from humans in their physical relationships. I have seen packs with two-person romantic entanglements that dissolve and reform and switch partners over decades, and I’ve never interacted with a large pack that didn’t have at least a couple of polyamorous agreements. Werewolves are tactile and affectionate with one another, and rarely have strict preferences about what kind of, well, what kind of genitalia their partners possess.” 

“Pansexual,” Derek offered neutrally. “That’s the way it’s described now.”

“Bitten wolves, too?” Stiles wasn’t so sure. 

“The longer you live in a pack and learn to embrace the duality of being a shifter, the more likely you are to disregard any orientation your human self might have had. Not everyone is that way, of course, but generally speaking werewolves are more focused on smell and feel and pheromones than on gender,” Deaton said. “Derek? Does that sound right?”

Derek shrugged and nodded. “I guess it makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint, too. It’s more about making partnerships that further stability of the pack and less about sex for procreation. Some of us want kids and some don’t, but nobody has to worry about pregnancy to further the species. We can just bite.” 

He brought his teeth together in a feral grin that provoked a curl of heat in Stiles’ stomach. He ignored it. 

“Did either of you explain any of this to Scott?” Stiles wondered. 

“I discussed some lore with him,” Deaton said slowly. “But Scott’s life as a werewolf involved leaping from danger to danger, and he was not an attentive student. I thought I had more time….” He pressed a hand to his eyes and wiped them surreptitiously. Stiles blinked back his own tears and turned up to Derek. 

“Did you?” Stiles asked. 

“He wasn’t in my pack,” Derek simply said.

“Yeah, but it was your uncle that bit him,” Stiles pointed out.

“So? He was lucky I helped him control himself at all. He should have been Peter’s problem. Scott made his own choices. He _chose_ not to join me. Pack is everything, Stiles. Everything. It’s how we survive and we get strong.”

Stiles dried his eyes with an angry motion. 

“Fuck off, Derek, Scott’s _dead_ and you’re an asshole.” 

Stiles had barely gotten the words out before Derek’s hand clamped around the back of his neck in a punishing grip. 

“I’m your _alpha_ , Stiles. You don’t talk to me like that.”

Stiles couldn’t do anything but go limp and wait for whatever Derek would do next. His system was flooded with the urge to be still and attentive and unthreatening, to obey his leader’s unspoken command to submit. 

Derek’s hand disappeared and Stiles fell against Derek’s legs, weak and boneless. 

“Did you know an omega would react to you that way?” Deaton asked quietly. 

Stiles sensed rather than saw Derek’s gesture of denial; the alpha smelled sour, somehow, like regret or fear. 

“It’s—I just _did it_ , and it felt right.” 

“This is the other part of what I wanted to discuss,” Deaton said. “You and the pack will find yourselves responding to Stiles instinctively, and it won’t always be the right thing to do. And Stiles, you’ve already started to heed your wolf’s impulses.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” 

“Why did you sit on the floor by Derek?” 

“Uh, I don’t know? It was the closest place to sit, I guess?”

“What if I told you to go to the couch and sit against the far end?” Deaton suggested. 

Stiles shook his head quickly. 

“No, no, I like it here. I’m…it’s better here.” 

“What if Derek told you to go over there?” 

Derek’s fingers were suddenly clamped in Stiles’ hair and Stiles couldn’t move his head at all. 

“He’ll stay here,” Derek said tersely. 

“The way you two interact…it will set the tone for the rest of the pack. It’s vitally important that you treat Stiles respectfully, Derek,” Deaton instructed. “How you behave toward him will determine how he is perceived and perhaps even affect the betas’ instincts toward him. You make the pattern, Derek, it’s your pack. This is going to be a time of immense change and emotion for Stiles, and, as his alpha, you must help him through.”

“I don’t need Derek’s help,” said Stiles with another attempt to free himself. Derek yanked on his hair in retribution and Stiles stilled again. 

“Stiles, you’ve lost your father and your best friend and you’re making the hardest transition to being a werewolf that exists. You’re going to be exhausted and emotional and you can’t do it alone.” Deaton took another pause. “I won’t be in town for much longer. I had been retired, you see, but then Scott was bitten and turned. I couldn’t leave him—it wasn’t right to let him struggle without any help. But now…I need to pick up where I’d left off. You have the books, Stiles, and Derek told Chris and me that he’ll work things out so you can still finish high school here.” 

“You’re leaving?” Stiles knew he sounded like a kid and he didn’t care. Alan Deaton had been a guide—granted, often an infuriatingly cryptic guide—and a calm point of authority and the thought of facing what was to come without his self-assured wisdom was unsettling. 

“Chris said the legalities concerning your father’s house and his will are on their way to sorted. Derek helped.”

“Money solves a lot of things,” Derek explained. “You can live in the pack house.”

“But—but what about Scott’s mom? I’m sure she would…I could live alone!” Stiles protested. He had barely started to process the whole omega wolf situation, and now he had to face having former hookup partner Derek Hale—who was _getting married_ —as a guardian. Not to mention going to school looking like he was suffering from some kind of shrinking disorder. And…and his dad. 

“Melissa McCall is barely making it through Scott’s…death,” Deaton said gently. “She’s not emotionally or financially prepared to take on a teenage ward, Stiles, I’m sorry.”

“I can’t—I can’t be here,” Stiles gasped. Derek’s fingers loosened and he tried to lay a staying hand on Stiles’ shoulder, but Stiles was on his feet as soon as he felt the absence of Derek’s hold. “Thanks for the books. I wish I—I have to go.” 

Stiles bolted from the loft, ignoring Deaton’s call to come back. Derek hadn’t commanded him to stay, and that was all that mattered. Stiles ran down the stairs and outside, realizing only at that moment he had no idea what had happened to his Jeep after he’d gone into the bank. For all he knew, it was still parked in the alley, and the keys were lost somewhere between the blood-covered lobby and Derek’s loft. 

He could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks and he was so _tired_ of the sadness. He would just walk. Beacon Hills wasn’t huge. He could be home in a little less than two hours if he moved quickly. Home. Just the thought of it made the tears come faster. 

The sun was past its apex when Stiles staggered up the walkway to his front door. He collected the spare key from its hiding place and all but fell inside when the door was finally open. The smell of home overwhelmed his senses and he found that there were more tears in his body after all. 

His dad’s scent was everywhere, on everything, permeating every molecule of air, entwined with every mote of dust. Stiles fell face-first onto the couch and inhaled coffee and gun oil and whiskey and the same aftershave his dad had used since before Claudia Stilinski had died. Stiles cried until his face rested in a damp, ragged circle on the cushion. 

Then, hugging his arms to his stomach, Stiles walked through the house, touching the same things his father had touched, brushing his fingers over the kitchen chair his father had favored, over the framed photographs of Noah and Claudia when they were young, over the walls of the powder room downstairs with the hideous wallpaper that Claudia had called _so ugly it’s pretty again_ , over the mounds of paperwork piled on the dining room table, the scarred bannister leading upstairs, the hairbrush in Noah’s bathroom that still had sandy-hued strands collected in its bristles, the book with dog-eared pages Noah would never finish reading. The indentation of Noah’s head on his pillow. Stiles’ muscles failed him when he traced that faint impression and he collapsed on the bed. 

The house was quiet around him, already feeling empty despite the milk spoiling in the refrigerator and the dirty bowls sitting in the dishwasher and the toothpaste stains in the sink and the rumpled bedclothes and the soiled laundry and the son who was waiting for a father who would never return. 

Stiles got up slowly, wearily, and his eyes were dry. He left his dad’s room with the photograph of Claudia and toddler Stiles that had perched on the sheriff’s bedside table for more than a decade. Then he walked into his own room—his old room, now—and tugged his suitcase down from the closet shelf and packed for a life he didn’t want.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Ongoing angst ahead.

Keeping Deaton’s words about Mrs. McCall in mind, Stiles eventually called her and left a message that he was okay and had a place to stay. He didn’t know what to say about Scott, so in the end, he just paused for a long time before adding, _I’m so sorry_ , and hung up. She returned his call a week later and they made teary, stilted conversation about Scott before she had to go back to work. 

Stiles didn’t have the heart to call her again, and she must also have found the experience more painful than it was worth, because he didn’t hear from her. He put his energy toward trying to move on. He was still alive, and he knew both his father and Scott would have wanted happiness for him, even if it was as a werewolf. Well, the sheriff had died without knowing about the supernatural world, but he would have shared the sentiment. Stiles wondered sometimes what his father had thought in those last moments—if he had put two and two together and come up with _werewolves and witches and wendigos…oh my_. Maybe he’d just thought everyone was on drugs. 

Stiles tried not to think about Noah Stilinski’s last moments too often. Or Scott’s. He worked to become all but invisible at school. If the other students noticed that he was several inches shorter and subtly more…appealing, they didn’t vocalize it. His grades were still okay, but he never participated in discussions anymore, and his essays had gone from unpredictable and overly researched to colorless and entirely on-topic. 

He sat in the back of every classroom, slipping in just as the bell was ringing. He hid in the library during lunch and the rest of his pack never made any real effort to stop him. Unlike Stiles, they all seemed to enjoy attention, and flaunted their superior reflexes, their inhuman elegance, and their magnetic attractiveness. When the days were over, Stiles escaped to the Jeep alone and as quickly as possible. Derek had paid to have the vehicle repaired and rekeyed and Stiles hardly recognized the sound of its healthy engine. 

The sheriff’s will had named only Stiles, but even after the sale of the house and its contents there hadn’t been much. Stiles had tried to get Derek to let him pay room and board, but Derek, clearly impatient, had informed him that the Hale money would pay for any Hale pack members who needed it, so Stiles should stop being ungrateful and start being polite. Stung, Stiles had gritted out his thanks and dropped it, resolving to pay for everything he was able to. 

At least he wouldn’t need to cover the Adderall. His ADHD had all but disappeared, the one thing besides his still-beating heart he was truly thankful for. Stiles felt everything about him was quieter now. He no longer had manic bursts or intense periods of concentration. He didn’t chatter endlessly or speak very much at all. The only hint of his formerly restless personality was the oral fixation he couldn’t seem to quit—his nails were still bitten down to the quick and his pens thoroughly chewed. He wasn’t sure if the change in demeanor was grief or another deeply unwelcome omega alteration.

All through autumn, the pack worked on the Hale house with a construction crew led by a werewolf from Satomi Ito’s neighboring pack. Derek’s prediction had been right: By November, Derek, Stiles, and Isaac had moved into their completed rooms. Parts of the upstairs were still in progress, but the house was sealed against weather and the entire first floor was furnished for a pack. 

Although Stiles found it incredibly awkward to live around Derek, they fell into a pattern of avoidance that allowed them to co-exist without having to interact beyond pack meetings. Stiles hugged the fringes of those gatherings, never volunteering anything. During the pack’s second full moon together, Stiles shifted into his wolf with the others and felt like howling at his loneliness, even surrounded by the warm bodies of his pack mates. 

He assumed Derek’s lack of attention was due in part to their acrimonious break up and in part to the warning Deaton had given him about how he should treat his omega pack member. Stiles wasn’t convinced Deaton had intended for Derek to all but ignore him, but at the same time, Stiles knew it wouldn’t take much for his instincts to push him to devote himself to pleasing Derek. It was probably best that Derek never gave him the opportunity. 

Stiles wasn’t sure what Derek did with his time. He was rarely home when Stiles and Isaac were back from school, but he didn’t seem to have a job. Stiles knew the Hale family legacy included plenty of money, but that didn’t explain where Derek was all day and sometimes all night. The mysterious future mating alliance hadn’t been mentioned since Stiles had moved in, but sometimes he lay awake when he ought to be sleeping and worried about it. 

Stiles was pulling the Jeep around to the large garage behind the nearly rebuilt Hale house one early winter afternoon after school when he saw four or five cars taking up not only the entire garage, but also the concrete pad to its right. Frowning, Stiles parked on the grass to the left and, grabbing his book bag, headed into the house. 

He let himself in through the kitchen and paused, listening carefully for hints as to who was visiting and what they wanted. Derek’s voice was coming from the formal living room, which could seat at least ten with its generously sized sofas and groups of chairs. Stiles detected the smell of woodsmoke and assumed the room’s fireplace was in use, something Derek only bothered to do if there was more than one guest. 

Stiles could hear Derek’s familiar heartbeat in addition to six others. He edged toward the back staircase, not sure if he should go upstairs to his bedroom and wait for Derek there. If Derek’s guests were wolves, they all knew Stiles was in the house by then. Was it impolite in werewolf culture for him to rush in uninvited? Or was it worse for him to go upstairs instead of introducing himself? What if these were important guests that Derek didn’t want to share with him? Stiles hesitated, then heard Derek excuse himself in an apologetic tone. 

Seconds later, Derek was at the kitchen doorway, his face set in disapproving lines. 

“Please come into the front room so I can introduce you to our pack’s guests,” Derek said tightly. His eyes ran down Stiles’ form and his lips thinned in annoyance. “What are you wearing?” 

Stiles glanced down at himself in surprise. 

“Just…school clothes, I guess,” he said. He had given all his old clothing away weeks ago; everything was too big and reminded him of the unwanted changes he’d undergone. Unfortunately, his self-imposed budget didn’t give him a lot to work with, so his new wardrobe came from the dregs of the thrift store and consisted primarily of bulky sweaters, loose jeans, and long-sleeved shirts with well-worn elbows. There was nothing in Stiles that wanted to highlight his omega werewolf body with tight clothing. In fact, sometimes he thought the reason no one at school ever commented on his altered appearance was because they didn’t recognize him.

“Come on,” Derek sighed, and Stiles could smell the alpha’s irritation and embarrassment. It made him feel defensive—Derek had never mentioned having people over to the house who weren’t pack. Besides, Stiles had been wearing this outfit or something similar for more than a month and a half. Derek hadn’t said anything earlier. 

Self-consciously, Stiles smoothed his sweater down and tried to make his hair less wild-looking. If Derek’s grim expression was anything to go by, his efforts were unsuccessful. They entered the front room nearly side by side, but Stiles stopped moving once he got a few steps in. 

The space was full of the strong scents and emotions of the group of werewolves gathered there—Stiles tried to breathe shallowly and ignore the _excitement, satisfaction, apprehension, amusement, impatience_ that assaulted him. He got whiffs of jasmine and decaying leaves and motor oil and salt water despite attempting to regulate his air intake and he was a little dizzy when he made it over to Derek. 

“Alpha Dufort,” Derek said, inclining his head to an older woman seated near the fire. The name triggered a wash of nausea in Stiles, and he remembered Derek’s words from the day they’d ended their…thing. _I think the Dufort pack is going to agree…._

The female alpha rose and put her hands on Stiles’ shoulders. 

“This must be your omega,” she said. They were nearly the same height, and her dark brown eyes catalogued every nuance of Stiles’ appearance with a calculating air. “Very lucky, Alpha Hale. Very rare to see such an example of the old hierarchy.” 

“We feel fortunate,” Derek said woodenly. Stiles held back a sigh of relief when Alpha Dufort released his shoulders, allowing him to step back into his own alpha. Derek guided Stiles toward an empty space on one of the couches, directing him to sit on the end while Derek himself took a seat next to him, a tawny-haired woman wearing a confident smile on his other side.

“He doesn’t smell much like pack,” Alpha Dufort observed. “It’s clear he lives here, yes, but he doesn’t seem to be doing his job very well.” 

Stiles clutched the arm of the sofa and cast a bewildered look at Derek. What did the other alpha think his job was, exactly? 

“I’m sure Derek has things under control, mother,” the smiling woman to Derek’s right said. 

“Thank you, Isobel,” Derek told her, an answering smile lightening his features. Stiles’ stomach clenched at the unwanted memory of Derek smiling at _him_ that way on a hot summer day. “Stiles is a new wolf and he’s still settling in here at the house. His father is recently deceased and he’s had a…rough time at school,” Derek explained.

“He still goes to school?” Alpha Dufort’s brows rose in surprise. “Surely he could spend that time attending to the pack and, if you wanted, prepare for his high-school equivalency exam remotely. No reason for him to keep leaving the den.” 

Stiles opened his mouth, ready to deliver something fiery and angry, but Derek shot him a quelling glance and reached around to squeeze the back of Stiles’ neck. The trick never got old, it seemed—Stiles melted into his alpha and couldn’t think beyond trying to obey. A small part of him was infuriated and humiliated, but his omega instincts, long neglected by Derek’s deliberate absence, came roaring in. 

“Good advice, Alpha Dufort,” Derek said agreeably. “I’ll keep it in mind.” 

“Don’t forget I’ll be here, too, mom,” Isobel reminded the alpha with another dimpled smile. “Part of this agreement involves a bit of a cultural exchange, remember?” 

Alpha Dufort’s hard gaze softened somewhat as she looked at her daughter. 

“I didn’t hold with all Talia Hale’s ideas—that relationship was fostered by my late sister, who was alpha when you were a boy,” she told Derek. “But you seem to have a good head on your shoulders, and Isobel tells me your bitten wolves can make a full shift. Don’t give me cause to regret this union.”

“No, ma’am,” Derek replied, patting Isobel’s leg with an expression that, for Derek, served as a grin. “And you’ll meet the rest of the pack tonight over dinner. Isobel and I thought a night run might help us all get to know each other.”

Alpha Dufort nodded her approval of the plan, then stood. Derek helped Isobel up and the Dufort betas rose a second later. Stiles copied the others’ movement, in a state of numb shock. The blonde woman was Derek’s mate, his partner. The last few weeks, Stiles had blocked her inevitable arrival from his mind, trying to survive in the wake of tragedy. But his time was up. Derek’s soon-to-be mother-in-law was a psychopath who apparently wanted to lock Stiles in the house and make him do his job—whatever _that_ was—like a good little omega. 

Stiles tried to recall exactly how Deaton had described his role, but he couldn’t bring to mind anything about forced servitude or lack of higher education prospects. In fact, Stiles was pretty sure Deaton had just said the word _peacemaker_ repeatedly. Well, sexual healer and producer of self-lubrication, too, but those components had seemed optional. And Stiles had yet to feel anything remotely approaching arousal since Deaton’s departure, so the last bit was all theoretical still.

Stiles thought of the books Deaton had left and how he had only gone over them a few times, mostly looking for information on anything that might allow him to turn into a beta in spite of Deaton’s insistence that the change was permanent. Now he wished he’d investigated traditional pack roles more seriously. 

He followed the others out of the room, but Derek disappeared into the backyard with Isobel, and Stiles had no intention of getting anywhere near Isobel’s terrifying mother. Instead, he snagged his book bag from where he’d dropped it by the kitchen door and hurried up the stairs to his room. 

Doing homework took up the time before dinner, which was a truly astounding number of venison steaks Derek personally grilled for each werewolf. The meat was from a recent kill the pack had made together, a fact Derek tossed into conversation as the Hale pack and the Dufort pack mingled in the house’s expansive dining room. Derek had had a local catering business deliver enormous containers of side dishes, all of which were expertly prepared. The scope of the arrangements made Stiles realize that Derek had been planning the event for weeks, and he’d never said a word to the rest of the pack. Or to Stiles, at least. Stiles wondered uncomfortably what he should be doing, but the cooking was taken care of, and there were stacks of plates, napkins, and cutlery already set out. 

Isobel and the lone female Dufort beta rhapsodized about the wine, while the three male betas from the Dufort pack chatted with Derek as he grilled, and were eventually joined by Boyd, Isaac, and Erica. Jackson showed up a few minutes later with Lydia on his arm. Stiles hadn’t spoken with her since she had rescued Jackson over the crumpled hood of the Jeep, and she hadn’t sought him out at school. He knew Lydia was aware that he had become a werewolf and lost his father, but aside from a nod of acknowledgement and a few words of sympathy when she’d attended the sheriff’s funeral with the pack, she hadn’t said anything to him. 

True to form, Lydia ignored him again, smiling with her usual brand of polite condescension when Jackson showed her off around the room. Derek came in with the final plate of steaks and the werewolves were a model of efficiency in serving themselves buffet-style. When everyone was seated, Derek deferred to the older alpha in the room, waiting for her to take her first bite before cutting into his meal. After both alphas had begun to eat, the rest of the wolves took it as their cue to dig in. 

“This is delicious, Alpha Hale,” the Dufort leader said. 

“Please, call me Derek. After tonight, we’ll practically be family,” Derek replied with that same smile Stiles had missed. 

“Derek, then,” she agreed. “You may call me Elizabeth, or mother, if you’d prefer.”

“Thank you,” Derek said. Stiles would bet quite a lot that Derek would sooner set the new house on fire than call anyone other than Talia Hale mother. 

“You surely don’t order food every night,” Elizabeth said. “Your omega, is he a competent cook? He’s very young, and he must not have time for anything fancy if he’s still at school.” 

“Stiles? Cook?” Erica laughed. “He’s like a little mouse these days. We never see him. I don’t know what he does around here.”

Derek shot her a glare and she quickly shoved a huge bite of steak into her mouth. 

Stiles saw Elizabeth give Isobel a meaningful look and his stomach knotted. 

“As I said, Stiles is still adjusting.” Derek’s voice was friendly, but the look he cast his betas was full of warning. “I’m sure things will settle out, especially once Isobel is living here.”

“I’m sure,” Elizabeth echoed blandly. “Now, Derek, you told me that you believe allowing some elements of supernatural diversity into the greater pack structure can be a strength. I see you’ve invited your banshee to a pack dinner. Is that common?”

“Lydia is definitely an asset,” Derek replied. “Our defenses wouldn’t be as strong without her insights and education. She serves as our lore translator in the absence of a traditional pack historian, and her banshee side has warned us more than once of impending danger.” 

The conversation turned to different historical approaches to werewolf packs and their relationship with non-shifter supernatural creatures. Stiles listened with half an ear and put the rest of his attention toward taking the measure of the long table’s occupants. 

Derek was seated at the head, with Elizabeth Dufort to his right and Isaac to his left. Isobel sat next to her mother, followed by a male beta, the female beta, and the final two male betas. To Isaac’s left was Boyd, then Erica, then Jackson and Lydia and, finally, Stiles. He listened to the quiet conversations until determining that the Dufort betas were named Colin, Caroline, Aubrey, and Ellis. Caroline and Colin appeared to be siblings, and both were higher-ranked betas than Aubrey and Ellis. 

Stiles found he’d missed out on a lot of his own pack’s various political maneuverings over the last month or so. Jackson appeared annoyed that he was seated last in the line of Hale pack betas, and Stiles wondered if Derek kept Jackson down to discourage him from a power grab. Stiles doubted Jackson had internalized any of Deaton’s hints that not all betas could be alphas. Lydia soothed her boyfriend by stroking his ego in a low voice.

Erica was exchanging beauty tips with Caroline and Isobel, and Colin, caught in the middle of their triangle discussion, exchanged commiserating looks with Boyd and Isaac. Derek and Elizabeth were going over the alliance terms once again. 

Stiles caught the curious eyes of Aubrey and Ellis and flushed. 

“Want some help with the dishes after this is all over?” Ellis offered. Stiles glanced around to be sure the beta was talking to him. 

“Um, thanks?” Stiles said. 

“No problem,” Ellis replied. “You should take advantage of us while we’re here. Once it’s just Isobel….” He and Aubrey both laughed a little and one of them imitated the sound of a whip. 

“She’s a taskmaster,” Aubrey said, shaking his head with a smile. “Seems to like Derek pretty well, though. It’s a good thing he hasn’t finalized any of the decorating around here.”

“She’ll have opinions,” Ellis added. 

“She sounds….” Stiles trailed off awkwardly. 

“Oh, Isobel’s wonderful,” Aubrey assured him. 

“Really fun,” Ellis enthused. 

“She and the alpha both have big personalities, so it will be great for her to spread her wings away from home. I know she’s been looking forward to joining the Hale pack. These lands are legendary. The whole nature preserve for pack grounds? Incredible,” Aubrey said.

“We’re all looking forward to the run tonight,” said Ellis with a nod. 

He and Aubrey started talking about a piece of Oregon legislation that might affect their pack lands and Stiles let his attention drift over to Lydia and Jackson’s low-voiced conversation. 

“…his mom keeps asking me if I’ve heard from him,” Jackson was saying with an uncharacteristic expression of guilt. 

“He made his bed,” Lydia returned. “Let him lie in it. Literally. He chose his boyfriend over his best friend.”

“I don’t know why he didn’t just come with us,” Jackson muttered. 

“Focus on the future, babe,” Lydia said. “This pack is about to get a lot stronger, and you’re part of it.”

“I guess—” Jackson’s reply was lost as Derek and Elizabeth Dufort both got to their feet, glasses raised. 

“To the Hale-Dufort alliance,” Derek said into the silence. 

“To the Dufort-Hale alliance,” Elizabeth corrected with a wry smile. Derek shrugged and smiled and they touched their glasses with a sharp _clink._

The rest of the pack followed suit, toasting the pack relationship with expensive red wine and expressions of goodwill. Stiles slowly sipped his drink, watching as Derek drew Isobel from her chair and pressed a lingering kiss on her upturned lips. He wondered if the betas’ parents were aware their underage children were guzzling wine and socializing with strange adults. Probably about as aware as they were of werewolves, he guessed.

The alphas and most of the betas drifted away from their seats, leaving the detritus of the meal behind. Derek paused long enough in his romantic ardor to give Stiles a meaningful look toward the mess, and Stiles didn’t bother to feign misunderstanding. He gave Derek a resigned nod and started gathering up dirty plates, feeling like CinderStiles. 

True to their word, Ellis and Aubrey helped him stack and carry everything into the kitchen. 

“Thanks,” Stiles told him, genuine gratitude in his voice. 

“You don’t want to miss the run,” Ellis said. “Besides, we’re used to it. From what I’ve seen, the Dufort pack is a lot more hierarchical than the Hale pack. Lowest-ranked betas do most of the den work where we’re from. If there were ever any omegas, they’d probably do it instead.”

“You’ve never met another omega?” Stiles asked. 

“No, never even heard of another one.”

“Then how do you know what work omegas are supposed to do?” Stiles was curious.

“I’m not sure,” Ellis replied, frowning. “When we found out the Hale pack had a new omega, Elizabeth was really excited. I mean, for her that meant she just said, _How interesting_ , or something, but we know our alpha. She spent a ton of time in our records room, since there hasn’t been an omega in any pack we know in at least a hundred years.”

“Maybe they just didn’t tell us,” said Aubrey. “I don’t know what our alpha found in the lore, but—”

“Omegas are the sign of a powerful, stable pack,” a new voice said from the doorway. 

Stiles spun around to find Isobel Dufort standing there. The wet plate still clutched in his hand dripped on the floor as he stared at her. 

“H-hello,” he said. 

Aubrey and Ellis both looked back at her with smiles. 

“We’re nearly done in here,” Ellis said. 

“Why don’t you two go get ready for the run?” Isobel suggested. “Stiles and I will be out in a few minutes.”

“Thanks for the help,” Stiles said as the betas left, each giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder as they departed. 

“I haven’t gotten a chance to introduce myself properly,” Isobel said. “Derek’s told me a lot about you.”

“Oh?” Stiles flushed and busied himself with loading the dishwasher then rinsing out the sink. 

“He said there hadn’t been an omega in the Hale pack in living memory.”

“Uh, yeah. Yes, that’s what I gathered.” Stiles paused, looking back at her. “Is it true? What you said earlier, is that true? That omegas are the sign of a powerful and stable pack?”

“Of course,” Isobel replied. “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

“I thought turning into an omega was kind of random,” Stiles said, facing her fully. “I didn’t think it had anything to do with the pack.”

“Well, a weaker pack’s omega would be killed,” said Isobel reasonably. “So any omega still alive and performing his function would only belong to a pack that could protect him. Omegas aren’t very good at defending themselves. They need the stronger pack members for that. Omegas are meant for other things, like staying in the den to make sure things are always ready for the pack.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. 

“I get that my instincts make me more…um, emotionally sensitive to the pack…or whatever,” he began. “But I don’t think keeping the peace is incompatible with self-defense, or getting an education.”

“Your instincts help you soothe tempers, sure,” Isobel said. “And that’s valuable. Sometimes we all need someone to talk to. But my mother’s pack found a book from the last Dufort alpha who had an omega, so we’ve read first-hand accounts of how things are supposed to be. Your life is meant to be lived for the pack. My predecessor’s book was very clear on that point. Omegas don’t take mates, they don’t get married. They keep the house clean and tidy and they prepare meals for their pack. Omegas are providers, Stiles, not fighters or leaders. If you listen to what your wolf is telling you, I’m sure you’ll see.”

Stiles was so angry and afraid after her speech that his muscles trembled and he had to grip the side of the counter for support. 

“Just because some guy a century ago wrote in his diary that omegas are supposed to be 1950s housewives doesn’t mean that’s reality!” Stiles snapped. 

“I see my mother might have been right about how Derek’s been leading this pack,” Isobel said, moving in on Stiles with deliberate steps. Trapped against the edge of the sink, Stiles could only watch her advance with wide eyes. “Here’s something else you might not know. Omegas aren’t as strong as betas and alphas. They don’t heal as quickly. They’re a step up from humans, but they aren’t as resilient as other werewolves. My ancestor didn’t know why that was, but I have my own theory. Do you want to hear it?”

Isobel’s eyes, glowing beta blue, were transfixing. Stiles couldn’t tear his gaze away from her face, his wolf telling him that this was the mate of his alpha and he needed to please her. 

“I think it’s because when omegas are punished, they need a few marks to remind them to behave better.” Isobel bent her head down and dropped the words directly into Stiles’ ear. The warmth of her breath coupled with the coldness of her words made him cringe. She reached out to take hold of his arm and Stiles let her; even as he told himself to fight back, the smell of her enveloped him, urging him to be still and accept what was happening. 

Isobel pushed up the sleeve of Stiles’ sweater, baring his inner arm. Then she placed a cool finger and thumb on the sensitive skin just above his left elbow and pinched him hard enough that he couldn’t help giving a short cry of pain. 

“See?” she purred, running a proprietary fingertip over the red mark, which was already starting to bruise. “Every time you feel this, you’ll remember to be more polite.”

Stiles was having trouble breathing, whether from fury or panic, he wasn’t sure. Isobel turned him back around to face the sink and gave him a patronizing pat on his ass. 

“Finish up the dishes now,” she told him, then he heard her walk out of the kitchen. 

“I don’t know what to do, dad,” Stiles gasped breathlessly, covered by the sound of the faucet. His hands moved meaninglessly around in the sink, clenching on air. “Scotty, I don’t know what to do. Help me.” 

Boyd found him there later, the kitchen gleaming and spotless and Stiles with his sleeves pulled so far down only the tips of his fingers showed. 

“Time for the run,” Boyd said. He glanced around. “Looks good in here. Derek’s waiting for you, come on.”

Stiles jerked his head in the approximation of a nod and followed the beta outside. Boyd held him back with a hand on his chest before they reached the others.

“You smell…off. You okay?” Boyd bent down to peer into Stiles’ face. He didn’t quite look concerned, but his face also wasn’t entirely emotionless. 

“I—I don’t know,” Stiles whispered. “Isobel, she….”

“Yeah, she’s something,” Boyd said, and Stiles looked up swiftly, hoping to see his own fear and distaste echoed in Boyd’s eyes. But the beta was smiling almost fondly. “She’s really taken to Erica. It’s good to see my girl with a friend. Lydia’s smart, but she’s not very nice.” Boyd grimaced a little and glanced down at Stiles again. “Well, don’t tell her I said that.”

“S-sure,” Stiles got out, firmly tamping down the desire for mad laughter. “Secret’s safe with me, big guy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Boyd directed, absently cuffing Stiles on the back of the head. 

Stiles staggered, both from the uncaring strength of the blow and the reminder of Derek. _Don’t call me dude._

He and Boyd joined the group of werewolves as they were shedding their clothing and moving into the partial shift. Derek and Elizabeth became wolves first, then all around Stiles, the two packs were dropping to four legs. He slid into his wolf shape with relief. At least in his animal form he didn’t dwell on the miseries of his human life. 

Instead, he was able to slink unnoticed to the back of the joint pack run and take what joy he could from the thrill of the night air and the life of the preserve all around him. As Stiles-the-person, he’d thought about running away, leaving Derek and Isobel and the whole hellish existence behind him. But as Stiles-the-wolf, he recognized the futility of that plan. Even if he’d been the least pack-sensitive beta in the world, he’d have a hard time surviving as _eremos_ , cut off from the stabilizing influence of a pack. As an omega, bound by his instincts to be surrounded by pack, his odds of making it were very low. 

Just spending the last month and a half without Derek’s deliberate attention had weakened him. To actually be away from Derek and the pack in a permanent, physical way would break him. No, he had to stay. He could stick it out. For his dad and Scott, he could stick it out.


	5. Chapter 5

The Duforts left in a few days to return to the rest of their sizable pack in Oregon, and soon after that, delivery trucks with new furniture arrived. The Ito pack contractor practically lived at the Hale house, driven by Isobel’s combination of charm and threats to finish any leftover work in short order. By Thanksgiving the house was complete, Isobel’s taste a near-palpable presence in every room, even Stiles’. 

He found it easier and easier to give in to what Isobel asked him to do in the presence of the pack and what she ordered him to do when they were alone. It got harder to make it to school every morning when he needed to prepare breakfast for not only Isaac, Derek, and Isobel, but also Boyd, Erica, and Jackson. At Derek and Isobel’s invitation, the three betas had started spending more time at the house and stopping by to eat before school. Lydia occasionally joined them, but her idea of breakfast was coffee and judgmental stares as everyone else scarfed down pork products and pastries. 

Stiles figured out how to cook for a crowd and which parts of house cleaning Isobel was most likely to notice. Derek started spending more time around him again, which at first sent Stiles into transports of bliss. His alpha noticed him, his alpha paid attention to him, his alpha ran fingers through his hair and rested a hand on his shoulder. 

But then the touches started to be accompanied by commands. Stiles ran errands and made more elaborate meals. He did the laundry for the household and then for the werewolves who lived in the house. The considerable square footage meant multiple bathrooms, bedrooms, and sitting areas that had to be vacuumed and dusted and swept. The betas never offered to help and Stiles was afraid Isobel might hurt him if he asked for assistance. She’d made it clear that upkeep was his job. 

Sometimes Stiles stared at himself in the mirror, at the face that wasn’t quite his, the glinting silver of his wolf eyes. He wondered if there was something wrong with him, if the rash and brave boy who had dragged his best friend out into the woods so long ago was even inside anymore. It felt like the vital part of him had been buried with Noah Stilinski and all that remained was the pathetic omega werewolf, who was trapped. 

Stiles tried to remind himself of Mieczysław Stilinski, the smart-mouthed son of the sheriff who didn’t take shit from anyone, but it was becoming impossibly difficult to reconcile his former self with the current shadow. And looming over everything was the cold-eyed, smiling face of Derek’s mate, who was engaged to be his wife. 

He wasn’t sure why he allowed her to terrorize him so completely. His werewolf instincts betrayed him at every turn, of course, but surely he was more than a set of impulses. It was just…if everyone had left him, was he worth sticking around for? 

Although she continued to bathe Stiles in a wash of subtle poison at every opportunity, Isobel didn’t physically touch him again for weeks. Then one morning, when he was still learning how to juggle tasks so that all the food arrived hot at the same time, she came into the kitchen and asked for her juice. Stiles, strung out and starting to see his grades slip, told her sharply that he hadn’t had time to squeeze it yet, and maybe she could just buy something pre-made at the store. 

Isobel was at his side in three long strides, yanking his head back and baring his neck with a growl. 

“I thought you were going to be polite,” she hissed. 

Stiles tried to free himself and she gripped harder. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It’s just juice, Isobel, let me go.”

“It’s about your constant disrespect,” Isobel said, her tone cooling. Stiles started to really feel afraid. Isobel angry was scary, but Isobel coldly furious was a thing to be avoided at all costs. He didn’t protest when she told him to remove his shirt, just took it off with shaking hands and stood there half naked in front of her while she ran dark eyes over his exposed skin. 

“Turn around,” she said, fetching a wooden spoon from the canister by the oven. 

“Isobel, wait—” Stiles started, but a flash from her wolf eyes had him slowly putting his back to her. 

“Hold onto the counter and be silent,” Isobel ordered. 

Stiles obeyed, anticipation and fear twisting around inside him. She lifted the spoon and he heard the small whistle of air before it came down in a sharp, bright smack on his upper back. She covered his skin in marks, avoiding his spine and his kidneys but not stopping until his entire back was on fire and he was heaving soundless sobs. 

“I don’t want to have to do this again, Stiles,” she said when she was through, sounding calm. “I don’t like hurting you.”

 _Lie_ , Stiles thought as he wiped his face and accepted his shirt from her hand. _Lie, lie, lie_. He tugged his clothing back on and tried to move without wincing. Light-headed with pain, he lifted his gaze to Isobel’s human brown eyes and tilted his head a little, genuinely curious. 

“What do you think Derek would say if I told him about this?” Stiles asked. 

“Derek needs a strong partner to lead this pack,” Isobel replied, getting out several oranges. “I think Derek’s ambition is a powerful master. Make sure you strain this correctly, Stiles. Yesterday I found a seed.”

She left and Stiles, moving like a old man, began to cut the oranges in half and impale them on the juicer. He wondered what had happened to Derek Hale, what he had been like before the fire, before Kate Argent and the crushing guilt—and subsequent fury—of knowing he had helped destroy his entire family. Was there another life out there, one where Derek was kinder and less determined to protect himself against ever losing again? 

Stiles tried to imagine Derek’s reaction to his bruised back. What would he do? Stiles thought of the pride on Derek’s face when they had sealed the alliance between the Hale and Dufort packs, the way his black wolf ran with Isobel’s brown wolf by his side, their steps in sync. And he thought of the way every one of Derek’s touches came with a request. He remembered Derek’s face turning away from him when Stiles asked if their relationship was over. 

He wasn’t going to be able to go to school with his back the way it was. Stiles went about breakfast preparation like an automaton. Maybe he should just stop going—his grades were a joke at this point. He saw the hours, days, months stretch in front of him, a slow, cruel march to a more permanent darkness. 

Stiles watched the way the orange pulp drifted and swirled, gradually sinking to the bottom of the glass, and felt like a cold, brittle shell was forming over all the soft, warm parts of him. He knew in some distant part of himself that he had other choices, that he was more than Isobel’s cowed omega, but it was all so hard to _see_. When Stiles closed his eyes, it was hopelessness that claimed him every time. 

\- X -

Peter Hale hadn’t survived burning alive, descending into insanity, being murdered—fire _again_ , what were the odds, really—and then escaping the grave only to lose his newly restored life in a bar fight. He was somewhere outside Detroit, sweating from the sweltering heat of an Indian summer in October and trying to get a civilized drink at a civilized bar. It was looking like failure on both counts. The bar’s air-conditioning was broken and warm beer wasn’t what Peter had had in mind. 

He sighed in justifiable annoyance and decided he might as well use the bathroom before he left in search of greener—or at least cooler—pastures. Then he caught movement in the corner of his eye and saw a large man who smelled blatantly of wolf, human blood, and cheap beer slide out from his booth and move slowly in Peter’s direction. Peter might be tired and cranky and hot, but he still recognized trouble. 

The bathroom was stifling, despite a breeze coming in through the broken window, and so dingy even the uneven glow of the single, forty-watt bulb couldn’t hide the neglect. Peter let the door close behind him, then rolled his neck from side to side, loosening up his muscles and preparing for the inevitable.

“I’m looking to build my pack.” The other werewolf locked the door after entering the bathroom and stared at Peter with red eyes. 

“Sorry.” Peter shrugged. “I’m not really looking to join.”

“I need a pack,” the alpha insisted, and Peter knew there was only way out of this. The alpha’s scent was all wrong, full the neediness and hostility of a wolf who had been alone and without pack support for too long. Idly, Peter wondered what his story was, how he’d lost his people, but he supposed ultimately it didn’t really matter.

“Look, I’m a lot stronger than you right now,” Peter said, giving reason and logic one shot. “If you try to take me back with you, you’re going to lose. Walk away this minute and I’ll let you go.”

The alpha snorted, even as his facial muscles twitched and the red of his eyes flickered, marking his lack of control. 

“I need a pack,” he said again, then lunged at Peter. The move was telegraphed long before it happened, and Peter made the battle swift and as painless as he could. For all that the other werewolf was an alpha, his energy was nearly depleted, and he wasn’t much of a challenge for a strong beta wolf who had cheated death twice. 

When Peter’s claws tore through the alpha’s throat, spilling blood all over the filthy, broken tile floor, he felt the astonishing rush of power flow through him for the second time in his life…lives. Peter let the body drop and stared at his reflection in the rusted mirror. The only clear part of the image was the crimson glow of his eyes.

“Well.” Peter glanced down at the dead former alpha, lying in a pool of red liquid and what was likely urine. He winced a little. “I think it’s the back exit, then.” 

The bar’s few patrons, a largely incurious lot, didn’t glance up from their drinks when Peter slipped out of the bathroom and ducked around to the service entrance. He strode outside with a renewed sense of life and purpose, flexing his claws and letting his eyes shine alpha red. This wasn’t the turn of events he had predicted when he’d agreed to visit a friend out east, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. 

Peter drew in a great lungful of air, enjoying the simple act of breathing as an alpha more than the actual odors of decay, sewage, and asphalt. He had just closed his eyes to savor the moment when a hard punch landed right under his jaw, snapping his head back and making him stagger several steps. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” he yelled, eyes flying open. The damage to his body had already healed by the time he was stable on his feet again, and he glared furiously at his beautiful, dark-haired attacker. 

“You killed that alpha, didn’t you?” she demanded.

“Yes, I did. He was feral and completely unhinged. You should be thanking me, not punching me. Again, what the fuck, Braeden?” Peter bared his elongated incisors at her before shifting back to his entirely human shape. 

The woman in front of him seemed to collapse in on herself at his words. 

“God-fucking-dammit, Peter,” she said. “How are you even alive right now? This completely screws up my plan.” 

“Do you mind if we find some shade to discuss this?” Peter asked. Braeden sighed and let him lead her across the street to an overgrown empty lot with a large weeping willow growing in its center. They sat down in its shadow and Peter gave Braeden a few minutes to pick disconsolately at one of the trailing branches before prompting her with a meaningful clearing of his throat. 

“I’d been tracking that alpha for a while,” she said. “It was a job from the Hunter council—his pack was small, just his immediate family and a cousin, and they were all killed last year in a freeway pile-up. Some jackass hit their camper and the whole thing went up in flames. The alpha was driving, and he was the only one who lived. I guess he drifted for a while, but the whole thing made him super fucked up. After he’d been on his own long enough to go feral, he started trying to bite…anyone to make a new pack. Like, anyone. He was really obvious about it—he even tried to get unaffiliated beta wolves to join him. The Hunters called me in to put him down.” 

“And?” Peter asked after she quieted for several minutes. 

“And I got sloppy. Overconfident. He was wily and I underestimated him. A few days ago, he bit me, and I-I turned.” Braeden rubbed her side in memory. “Anyway, I didn’t want to be the lone beta to a crazy alpha, so I was going to kill him and become an alpha myself.”

“I see,” said Peter thoughtfully. He mentally probed the place where, long ago, the bonds with his birth pack had lived, and found a tentative thread to the woman next to him. “Well, it looks like his bond with you has carried over to me. What do you think about traveling together for a while? I don’t think you want to end up feral any more than I do.”

Braeden gave him a look of surprise that slowly became searching. 

“Yeah, let’s avoid going feral. But…why aren’t you dead? I heard you killed Laura and Derek killed you.”

Peter shrugged. 

“Magic, planning, incredible intelligence. I admit, I wasn’t at my best when I woke up from my six-year nap. But you know me—never go into anything without an exit strategy. I was considering joining Derek’s pack, but before I made any commitments, I decided to travel around a bit, think things over. I’m out here to visit an old friend.” Peter picked off a piece of branch and twirled it between his fingers. “You’re going to need some guidance to get through your first few months as a werewolf. We already have the pack bond, so….”

“Peter Hale, are you asking me to the dance?” Braeden grinned at him, dark eyes sparkling, and Peter thought it would be nice, for the first time in years, to have an actual adult in his pack. Obviously Derek didn’t count. 

“Where are you headed next?” 

“Technically I suppose the council job is done. They can wire me payment. I didn’t have anything else lined up right away. Why, you want to hole up somewhere and teach me how to be a werewolf?”

“Essentially, yes. I need to reacquaint myself with what it’s like to be an alpha, too. This time with more sanity and less revenge. I was on my way to visit a friend in a college town not too far from here. There’s a deli there that serves excellent sandwiches.”

“Sounds like a plan. Did you drive?” Braeden accepted Peter’s hand up. 

“Just told the cab driver at the train station to take me to the closest bar,” Peter replied and Braeden snorted in laughter. 

“Guess I’m driving,” she said, and they moved with perfect amicability to her truck. 

Less than an hour later they were pulling into the driveway of a rambling Victorian a few blocks from the university where Peter’s friend taught. Peter and Braeden hadn’t stopped talking once during the trip. She had been an acquaintance of Talia’s back in the day, when she was working as a U.S. Marshal and moonlighting with the occasional supernatural bounty. Peter hadn’t seen her since before the fire, but she’d kept herself informed. Apparently the Hunter council had discussed hiring someone to take Peter out, before Derek and his baby pack had put Peter in the ground. Temporarily. Braeden told Peter the council thought he was still dead. 

“The council and the rest of the world,” Peter commented. “It means I can’t really get any more of the Hale money than what I took from the family vault. But I’ve got some ideas for income.”

“I’m sure you do,” Braeden smirked. “So who’s your friend? I like the house.”

“Remember Talia’s emissary?”

“The vet?” 

“Mm-hm. He’s the oldest of three. You may have encountered his sister, Marin, at some point—”

“Yeah, I remember her. Deucalion’s emissary. What a clusterfuck his whole pack is.”

“Well, Marin is the youngest and Alan is the oldest and our host for the next few days is their middle brother, Gregory, also a druid. He teaches history with an emphasis on Celtic mythology.”

“Convenient,” Braeden observed. 

“Extremely convenient,” said a tall man from the front porch. He raised a hand in greeting as Peter and Braeden approached. “Means I can get the school to pay for all kinds of things I use in my practice. Peter, good to see you.”

“Greg,” Peter nodded. “This is Braeden…do you know, I’m not sure you’ve ever told me your last name.”

Braeden grinned. “That _is_ my last name. My first name is Maria, but I haven’t used it in years. Braeden’s fine.”

“Maria Braeden. Not what I was expecting,” Peter said. “Well, Gregory, Braeden. Braeden, Gregory.”

“Come on inside,” Gregory said, opening the door for them. “Would either of you care for something to drink?”

“Water would be welcome,” Peter said. “Thank you.”

“Water’s great, thanks,” Braeden agreed. 

“Just come through to the kitchen,” Gregory told them. Peter and Braeden followed him through the old house, the floorboards creaking under their feet. 

“I appreciate you housing me at the last minute like this,” Braeden said as they passed through the arched doorway that led to the kitchen. 

“It’s no problem,” Gregory replied amiably. “As you can see, you’re hardly my only last-minute house guest.”

He gestured toward Alan Deaton, who was leaning against his brother’s granite countertop and sipping a glass of iced tea. Peter blinked in surprise. 

“Alan,” he said. 

“Peter, Braeden.” Say what you would about Alan Deaton, the man knew how to do inscrutable, Peter thought enviously. 

“Taking a vacation?” Peter asked, accepting the glass of cold water Gregory passed him with a nod of thanks. 

“Finally retiring,” Alan replied serenely. “There’s a place in Florida I’ve been planning to live for years.”

“Retirement community?” Braeden asked.

“Voodoo practitioners with a small commune on the Keys,” Alan corrected. “I devoted my life to the Celtic traditions, and I always told myself I’d expand my knowledge of other avenues of belief someday.” 

“Doesn’t the pack need you?” Peter asked mockingly. “Where will poor Scott McCall work?”

Alan looked down at his iced tea for a minute without answering. When he raised his head, Peter was shocked to see his eyes were wet with tears. 

“I thought you knew,” Alan said heavily. 

“Did something happen in Beacon Hills?” asked Peter quickly. “I left after the kanima debacle. Deucalion’s traveling shitshow had just moved in and it seemed like a good time to get away.” 

“Yes, yes, it was a good time to…get away.” Alan pressed his fingers against his eyes. “Deucalion’s likely still out there somewhere, but the rest of the Alpha Pack is dead. So, I’m afraid, is Scott McCall.”

“ _What?_ ” Peter gaped. “Derek went up against the Alpha Pack with a few untrained teenagers?”

“It’s not what I would have advised,” Alan admitted. “Scott wasn’t the only one killed. The sheriff died, as well. The alpha Ennis was responsible, I believe.”

“And who killed Ennis?” Peter demanded. 

“Christopher Argent. He arrived too late to save Scott or Sheriff Stilinski, but he was instrumental in helping Derek’s pack eliminate the majority of Deucalion’s alpha collective.” 

“So much for the Demon Wolf,” Peter said dazedly, sinking into a kitchen chair. Braeden sat next to him, frowning. 

“Where’s your sister?” she asked. 

“Safe. Working elsewhere. She didn’t stick around once Deucalion fled,” Alan answered. 

“What about…what about Stiles? The sheriff’s son? Is he with Scott’s mother?” Peter was having trouble processing what Alan had said. Derek’s pack defeating Deucalion’s. Kali, Ennis, those freakish twins he’d heard rumors about…presumably all gone. 

“Ah. Stiles.” 

Something in Alan’s tone made Peter’s head jerk up, a tendril of unease uncurling in his stomach. 

“What about Stiles?” Peter said cautiously. 

“He was badly hurt during the confrontation with Deucalion’s pack. Badly hurt to the point that he would have died without…intervention.”

“Derek offered him the bite,” said Peter in a flat voice. 

“And he took it,” Alan finished for him. 

“So Stiles is in _Derek’s_ pack now,” Peter said. 

“Yes, he’s staying with Derek. Although….” Alan paused, an uncertain expression on his normally unreadable features. 

“Although?” Peter prodded. 

“It’s nothing you should worry about,” Alan concluded. 

“Hm,” Peter said, curious and unsettled. 

“How was the trip?” Gregory asked after a long, uncomfortable silence. 

“Eventful,” Peter replied, some of his natural self-assurance buoying him up. “Braeden’s a werewolf. I’m an alpha. Surprise.” 

The Deaton brothers gave him identical looks of mild disbelief, which, in the Deaton family book of reactions, was practically jaw-dropping astonishment. 

“Are you going back to Beacon Hills?” Alan asked. 

Peter made a considering noise. “Maybe. For a visit at some point. Not to live there, unless I want to challenge Derek. No, I think Braeden and I will figure out our pack, maybe travel around. Assuming you still plan to take jobs?” He directed the last part at his beta and she nodded. 

“Yeah. Can’t work for the council anymore, since they’d rather turn their guns on themselves than hire a werewolf. But I’ve got connections,” she said. 

“I may be able to get some work for you, too,” Alan offered. “The druid council is more…flexible than the Hunter group, and the emissaries’ Circle may also have jobs you’re suited for.” 

Braeden smiled at him, and Peter smirked when he saw Gregory noticing the way the grin brightened her face. Peter wondered if Alan would be interested in wagering over when those two would step away for some private time. He glanced up at Alan, saw his eyes fixed speculatively his brother, and debated whether he should bet on twenty-four hours or something closer to forty-eight.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter won the wager, and it turned out a sexually satisfied Gregory was someone who loved to make his own limoncello and regale his houseguests late into the night with stories of undergraduate idiocies. Peter spiked his drink with wolfsbane paid for by the university under the guise of classroom supplies and felt generally content with life. 

Braeden learned how to control her wolf with all the self-control and discipline she had brought to her years in law enforcement and bounty hunting. It was the single easiest transition Peter had ever guided and he felt very impressed with himself when Braeden managed a complete wolf shift on the next full moon. He thought her chances of being able to take her wolf shape any phase of the moon were pretty high, and he congratulated himself on the superiority of his pack. It might just be the two of them, but they were strong.

Alan stayed long enough for Peter to win two more wagers before wishing his brother luck and departing for the Florida Keys. When he grasped Peter’s hand in farewell, Alan hesitated and opened his mouth as if he had something more to say. Peter waited, but eventually Alan shook his head and smiled a little, patting Peter’s shoulder before heading to the airport. 

After a couple of weeks, Peter and Braeden left Gregory to his students and went south for a job Alan had passed on that concerned a pair of wendigos cutting a cannibalistic swathe through Texas. Braeden as a human had been frighteningly competent, and adding werewolf advantages meant she didn’t require much, if any, backup from Peter. He used his time to line up a few more jobs for them and work on his own side project. He also very much enjoyed playing the stock market, and basked in a self-satisfied glow whenever he looked at his rapidly growing bank account. With an eye to the future, he established a pack account and Braeden gamely chipped in some funds, as well. Peter began to be cautiously optimistic about building his own pack. 

In early winter, he and Braeden finished up a complicated, messy commission from the druidic council involving a darach and a berserker who were murdering and marauding their way around Nevada like a supernatural Bonnie and Clyde. In celebration of closing the case, Peter and Braeden drove down to Las Vegas and split a penthouse suite in one of the high-rise hotels on the Strip. It was nearly winter, and Peter wasn’t missing the chilly, damp air of Beacon Hills during the season. Instead, he lay in the sun by the pool like a very large cat, lazily watching the water lap at the blue-tiled edge. A drink with a tiny, yellow umbrella sat at his elbow and, on the whole, Peter couldn’t think of much to be upset about at that moment. 

Braeden had left early that morning for some sort of immersive spa experience, and they planned to reconnect for dinner. Until then, Peter’s only goal was to alternate between swimming in the pristine pool and lying in the exorbitantly expensive lounge chair he had reserved. 

Peter closed his eyes and exhaled, feeling drowsy and relaxed. The unpleasant sensation of ice-cold water dribbling over his abdomen tore him from his peaceful cocoon and he snapped his eyes open to find out which drunken moron he would have to verbally eviscerate. Instead of a sloppy frat boy or a bottle-blonde princess, however, Peter saw the nervous faces of one of the Alpha Pack twins and a vaguely familiar teenager who figured into Peter’s hazier memories of stalking Scott. 

He raised his eyebrows and brushed the water off his stomach with brisk, irritated motions. 

“You’re Peter Hale,” the twin burst out. 

“Yes,” Peter agreed. 

“We were looking for Deucalion,” the twin said, sounding lost. 

“Good luck,” Peter replied. “Now, unless you’ve _also_ paid several hundred dollars to sit on a chair by this particular pool, I suggest you leave before someone figures out you’re not really waiters.” 

Peter nodded meaningfully at the alpha twin’s dripping tray of drinks. Neither teenager moved and Peter suppressed a heartfelt sigh. He hadn’t missed dealing with Today’s Youth during his time away from Derek’s misguided biting spree. 

“ _Are_ you really waiters?” he asked. Both boys shook their heads in denial. “Then please set the drinks down and go away.”

“We’ve spent months looking for Deucalion,” the dark-haired, possible-friend-of-Scott’s told Peter with an intense look. 

“We followed the rumors. A powerful alpha with expensive taste and a tendency toward….” The twin seemed to be searching for a way to end his description. 

“Toward…?” Peter tilted his head. “Toward witticisms? Generosity? Brilliant ideas?”

“Er…being an asshole, I think, was the consensus,” the twin admitted. “Anyway, when we followed the leads, they brought us to you, not Deucalion.”

“This is demoralizing on several levels,” Peter said, resigned. “What do you want with Deucalion, anyway? Aren’t you already in his pack, twin person?”

“Well….” The twin wrung his hands anxiously and the other boy put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“What are the chances I’m going to be able to get back to relaxing any time soon?” Peter asked wearily. 

“We really need help,” the not-twin said, apparently coming to a decision. “Can we buy you lunch and explain the situation?”

Peter closed his eyes again for a minute, wondering which of his many misdeeds had resulted in him having to serve as some sort of crisis counselor for incompetent baby werewolves. 

“If you must,” he said at last, reluctantly collecting his room key and an unnecessarily low-cut, v-neck shirt. “But I warn you: I’m not a cheap date.”

Over lunch, the boys’ story came out in frantic surges of explanation, accompanied by an excessive number of sad expressions on the part of the twin, whose name was apparently Ethan. The other boy was called Danny, and Peter was pretty sure he was a recently turned werewolf.

Upon arrival in Beacon Hills earlier that year, Deucalion had advised his pack members to try to unsettle Derek’s pack. Although Ethan and his twin had targeted Derek’s betas, Ethan claimed he’d never been too comfortable with Deucalion’s commands. Instead of lurking around ominously, trying to scare the shit out of the junior Hale pack members, Ethan had spent his summer hiding in the library. Which was where he had met Danny, a contemporary of Scott’s who was on the lacrosse team with Derek’s betas, Scott, and Stiles. That explained why Danny looked familiar, Peter thought. 

Ethan had fabricated conducting a campaign of terror when he reported in to Deucalion, and his twin had reluctantly backed his story up, but in reality Ethan had been enjoying a sweet summer romance while the rest of the Alpha Pack was preparing to destroy Derek’s pack and claim Derek or Scott or both. 

On the day of the confrontation in the bank, Ethan and Danny were busy making out under the bleachers at Beacon Hills High while Aiden, Kali, and Ennis were being taken down by the Hale pack and Chris Argent. Once Ethan felt his pack bonds break, he found his way to the bank, only to narrowly avoid a contingent of Hunters burning the bodies. 

Ethan couldn’t help crying as he recounted the loss of his twin, and Danny rubbed his back silently until he got himself back under control. 

“After I saw them clean up the bank, I knew I had to hide somewhere until I could get out of town. But I didn’t have anywhere to go,” Ethan said. 

“So he came to me,” Danny continued the story. “It was…kind of a big shock to learn about werewolves and the supernatural and all that craziness. But once we’d talked, I thought Ethan should go to Derek, explain the situation. Ethan hadn’t even been in the fight. Derek’s not perfect…I knew he’d done some shit even before I heard about the teeth and fur and rage issues. Plus, his entire pack is apparently teenagers he recruited from the high school. I thought…I thought Ethan would be okay. And I thought Jackson would back me up. I really believed I could trust him, you know?” 

“Uh-huh.” Peter polished off his third plate of tuna tartare and set his fork down. “Is this Derek you’re talking about or your friend Jackman?”

“It’s _Jackson_ ,” Danny said. “And…it’s just…Jackson’s always been a little, um, volatile? But we’ve been friends since kindergarten and he’d hung out with Ethan and me over the summer.”

“And did he know you were part of Deucalion’s pack?” Peter pinned Ethan with a cool gaze. 

“Not-not exactly,” Ethan said. “Aiden—my brother, I mean…Aiden and I weren’t really involved in any of the plans Deucalion made. We only joined Deucalion because of how bad things were in our old pack. Aiden and I…we did stuff I regret to get free of them. And when we found out we could do the joint-alpha thing…it was something Deucalion liked. He wanted a collection of different kinds of alphas, I guess. It’s why he was going after Scott harder than Derek. Scott had alpha potential, and Deucalion thought Scott might even be able to become one without winning it in a fight.”

“Hmm.” Peter was thoughtful. It was possible, although quite rare. He wasn’t entirely convinced Scott McCall had had that kind of ability, but he supposed they’d never know now. “So.” Peter focused his eyes on Danny. “How exactly did my nephew convince you to take the bite?”

“Oh,” Danny said in surprise. “You can tell?”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” Peter replied. 

“Yeah, sorry,” said Danny. “Well, after I sent Ethan to Derek, Jackson and Derek fucked him up, dumped him on the edge of town, and told him to crawl after Deucalion. I got worried when Ethan didn’t text me, so I, er…traced his phone and picked him up. Technology’s sort of my thing, I guess.”

Peter nodded for the boys to continue their story. If things went the way he predicted they were going to, Danny’s skills could be quite an asset.

“Danny patched me up, but I was still out of it for the next couple of days. I don’t know how Derek turned the rest of his pack, but he showed up one night with Jackson and they said they needed to make Danny a werewolf to protect the pack.” Ethan glared down at the table before raising an angry gaze to Peter. “That’s bullshit, by the way. Danny wouldn’t—he would _never_ hurt his friends. And Jackson had been his friend for, like, their whole lives.”

“Derek was convinced, though,” Danny said. “He came into my family’s home and Jackson _helped him_. Derek told me all about the terrible things Ethan had done, then he said I could either join his pack or have him do this terrifying thing where he would stick his claws into my spine and make me forget about werewolves and Ethan and the pack.” 

Danny shook his head in disgust and remembered fear. 

“I tried to protect Danny—” Ethan broke off to take a deep breath. “I was still healing from earlier, and Danny was defending himself with this busted lacrosse stick he’d been repairing….”

“I really don’t know if Derek was truly aiming to turn me at that point,” Danny reflected. “He doesn’t seem like the most in-control guy. We were all fighting and it was dark and sort of confusing and it happened so fast. In the end, Ethan pushed Jackson out the window and Derek bit me and once we all realized what had happened, Derek got this weird, almost happy look? And he said I’d come to him soon enough. Then he jumped out the window to get Jackson and they left.” He paused. “What a fucking drama queen.” 

Peter wasn’t sure if he was referring to Derek or Jackson, but either option seemed plausible. 

“And what brought you to my hotel?” Peter asked, his fingers braced together to form a steeple. 

“Well I knew I couldn’t stick around Beacon Hills, waiting for Derek to force me into his pack,” Danny said. “I told my mom and my sister that I’d gotten into this exclusive college-prep program I applied for at M.I.T. Like I said, tech’s my thing, so it wasn’t hard to make up the offer look official. Ethan and I figured we’d try to find Deucalion so we could be part of a pack together. I’m still going to finish high school and go to college, but I probably have a better shot at doing that if I’m not part of Derek’s pack. No offense, I know he’s your nephew, but Derek’s kind of fucked up.” 

“Will you continue your search for Deucalion? Even knowing you’ve wasted your time thus far?” Peter asked. 

“What other options do we have?” Ethan asked bleakly. 

“Well….” Peter allowed a slow smile to grow on his face, one several people had told him looked diabolical. “I just happen to be an alpha looking for a few more pack members.”

“Really?” Ethan looked disbelieving and hopeful and Danny mostly looked relieved. 

“Really,” Peter said. “To take your bonds over from your existing alphas, there’s a ceremony, among other things. Shifting together, hunting prey, scenting…you accepting my leadership. I can give you a more detailed explanation if you’re interested in moving forward.”

Both boys nodded, and Peter collected the check then slid it over to their side of the table. 

“Thanks for lunch,” he said. 

\- X -

Peter’s new pack was a delight. Braeden had taken one look at Peter’s teenage potential pack members and burst out laughing, getting words like _it must run in the family_ and _are they even legal to vote_ out in between gasps of mirth. 

But over time, Peter saw the value in each of their talents and quirks. Danny was laid-back, deliberate, and genuinely gifted with technology. Ethan was more impetuous, but he took criticism with a real desire to learn from it, and when pressed about what kind of career he might like, he said accounting, citing something about the way there was always a right answer. Peter didn’t understand a desire for that kind of black-and-white certainty—he’d always been more of an essay-response kind of student—but he liked how Ethan’s personality both complemented and differed from his and Danny’s. 

Braeden was a straight shooter. Brave, dependable, loyal, and absolutely ruthless when necessary. Underneath all that grit was a surprisingly soft heart, too, which on more than one occasion had made Peter look twice at an issue he thought was decided. Peter himself, of course, brought a keen eye for detail, at least four contingency plans for any situation, and a certain moral flexibility that came in handy when things were tight. All in all, he could think of worse dynamics for a pack to have. 

The four of them moved around all winter, sometimes with Braeden as she took jobs, or when Peter wanted to go somewhere new for a research project he was developing. They did short-term rentals and vacation houses and learned how to work around each other and with each other, until they had developed their own idiosyncrasies as a group. 

Peter worked on establishing a home base, settling on a place with forest and water readily accessible, and with quiet and necessary isolation that they could retreat to without needing to be there full time. It wasn’t in Braeden’s nature to put down roots and never leave, and it wasn’t really in Danny’s, either. Peter liked the idea of them still wandering together part of the year—it was good to shake old prejudices and habits loose periodically, and few things did that as well as travel.

And he’d experienced something unexpected during his months serving as Braeden’s backup. She took bounties for money, but she also looked for jobs that would help other people. Given a choice between hunting down a corporate thief and tracking a feral werewolf, she’d choose the prey that presented the bigger danger to more people. 

Peter wasn’t used to thinking that way. His natural inclination was to take the job that involved the least effort for the most money. He’d go after the embezzler, obviously. But going after the embezzler had never satisfied him so much as entertained him…and maybe there was something sort of addictive about saving people rather than crushing them. Not that Peter wanted to build a life of nothing but altruism and self-sacrifice. Still, it didn’t feel _bad_ to be thanked profusely by an apple-cheeked young mother who clutched her sobbing child to her breast with one hand and fervently gripped Peter’s arm with the other. He wasn’t opposed to being a hero, he just didn’t want to make a habit of it. 

By spring, the pack was in Los Angeles, where Peter had set up meetings with several werewolf historians to gauge interest in establishing a supernatural lore convention. He’d spent a very long day dispelling the rumors of his insanity and subsequent death, and as soon as he returned to the rental, he went straight up to the bathroom and took a very hot shower. 

When he finally flopped onto his bed, ready to read until he fell asleep, he saw he’d missed a call from Alan Deaton. There wasn’t a voicemail, just a text that said _Call me._

Peter glanced at the time and wondered if it was too late to return the call. The trouble with being known as a closed-mouth, cryptic bastard was that people were never sure if call me meant _I’m dying and your voice over the phone is my only shot at survival_ or _Remember that banana bread recipe you made that one time at my brother’s house? I need to know if it was two eggs or three._

Knowing the erstwhile veterinarian of Beacon Hills, it was probably the former. Peter sighed and hit Alan’s number, listening to it ring twice before a familiar voice answered. 

“Hello, Peter,” Alan said. 

“How’s the commune? Stick any dolls with pins lately?”

“Voodoo is a legitimate spiritual practice with a rich and complex history, Peter,” Alan replied evenly. 

“Fine, you’re right—I apologize for my flippancy. It’s been a trying day,” Peter said. “You called?”

“Yes.” Alan’s voice roughened a little and if Peter concentrated, he could hear the druid’s heart rate speed up. 

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, entirely serious. 

“I received a message from Melissa McCall yesterday.” Alan paused. “She seemed quite distressed. Peter…there’s something I left out the last time we spoke. It’s about Stiles.”

“Yes? What about Stiles?” Peter was taken aback at the intensity of his reaction. He thought he had successfully consigned Stiles to Derek’s purview, but apparently he remained at least a tiny bit invested in his fate. 

“I told you he took the bite from Derek and joined the Hale pack. I did not mention that when Stiles turned…he wasn’t a beta.”

“He was an _alpha_?” Peter was incredulous. “I know Deucalion thought Scott might be able to work toward that kind of change, but I’ve never heard of _anyone_ getting the bite and somehow going from human to alpha werewolf.”

“I didn’t say alpha,” Alan replied. “Stiles is an omega wolf.” 

“An omega wolf.” Peter repeated the words as though they would be different coming out of his mouth. “Stiles is an omega wolf and you left him in Derek’s pack?”

“I spoke with Derek _and_ his pack,” Alan said, sounding defensive and uneasy for the first time Peter could remember. “I left Stiles books on werewolf culture and history. I impressed upon Derek that he needed to be respectful and considerate. I outlined the traditions and lore about omegas for the beta members of the pack. And Stiles should have ample protection. Derek has allied himself with the Dufort pack in Oregon, and he’s mated to one of their strongest betas. The daughter of the alpha, in fact.”

“You left a newly turned _omega werewolf_ with my emotionally defective nephew and his barely controlled gang of teenage misfits? After he had just lost his father and his best friend?” Peter’s burgeoning protective instincts, nurtured over his time with compassionate vigilante Braeden, were pinging out of control. “Did you know Derek and Stiles started sleeping together just before I left town? And now you tell me Stiles is living with Derek and his mate?” 

Peter took several deep breaths. Maybe he was being ungenerous. Derek hadn’t been a bad kid—a little spoiled, sure, since he was the baby and got away with a lot, but he wasn’t cruel. Or he _hadn’t_ been. Peter realized he had not looked too hard at Derek’s post-fire personality, being more concerned with taking over his pack and then using Derek’s blood to fuel his own resurrection. Perhaps that had been an oversight. 

“What did Melissa McCall have to say, then?” Peter asked. 

“She was very upset, understandably, after Scott’s death,” Alan said. “She wasn’t in a position to take Stiles in, and once he was settled with Derek, she took a job up in Washington, closer to her sister. Stiles told her he was all right, and she worked on getting her own life back together. I gather that she hadn’t been much in contact with him until recently, when she tried to call him and found his number didn’t work anymore.”

“Kids change phones a lot,” Peter suggested. 

“True,” Alan allowed. “But when she couldn’t get a hold of him, she tried reaching out to her old connections in Beacon Hills to see if she could get his new number through other avenues. No one has seen him in months. She called a friend at the school and he isn’t enrolled there anymore. Melissa’s former coworkers with kids said they heard he left town to live with relatives out of state. But Melissa told me the sheriff always talked around the holidays about how it was just Stiles and him left in the world, after Claudia died. She’s worried.”

“Why doesn’t she just ask Derek? Why don’t you?” 

“After Melissa called me, I did talk to Derek. He said Stiles withdrew from formal schooling and decided to finish his education from home.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “I have two betas in my pack doing the same thing. Is there more to this than Stiles maybe not wanting to go to school now that he’s without his best friend and his father?”

“It’s…I wish I could be more specific with you, Peter.” Alan sounded frustrated. 

“I admit, hearing that is a first from you,” Peter said. “I thought you liked to be obtuse on purpose.”

“I’m serious,” Alan returned sharply. “It never sat entirely right with me, leaving an uncertain situation like that. But I’d put off retirement for too long, and it seemed like there was a new era dawning in Beacon Hills, something closer to the kind of stability it enjoyed when your sister was the Hale pack alpha. But Stiles isn’t…he isn’t _thoughtless_. Even a grieving Stiles would have texted his new number to Scott’s mother. And the way Derek sounded when he spoke to me…it…well, it gave me a bad feeling.”

“A bad feeling, you say.” Peter was annoyed. “You, a druid of decades, can’t pin it down more than that? Did Derek sound angry? Upset? Happy?” 

“He sounded like a liar,” Alan finally said. “I’ve known Derek his entire life, and I don’t want to believe that anything has happened to Stiles that he wouldn’t tell me about, but…I would feel better if someone could discreetly check into the situation.”

“Ah, it comes at last. The reason you called me, specifically.”

“I’m asking you to make sure a teenage omega werewolf is safe and cared for. I hardly think that’s beyond your abilities as an alpha and a pack leader,” Alan said.

“That’s a low blow,” Peter growled. “Of course I’ll go. I’ll find some excuse. I don’t know what kinds of _feelings_ you have, but I will personally reassure you if that’s what it takes. Have your brother send me some of his wolfsbane limoncello in payment. Flights to San Francisco are expensive this time of year.” 

Peter hung up and tossed the phone onto the mattress next to him, troubled. He tried to remember what he knew about the Dufort pack. Once upon a time, he’d trained his memory to catalogue and file away all kinds of disparate facts and stories, ready for retrieval at any minute. But it had been years since anyone had required that sort of thinking of him. _Dufort_. Peter frowned in concentration. 

Talia had been friendly with a Dufort alpha, up near Medford. Peter teased the details out bit by bit from the tangle of his pre-fire memories. Stern face, quiet laugh, tough but not unreasonable. The pack culture was highly traditional, and Peter hadn’t liked all its higher-ranked betas. He tried to remember names or faces, but it was too long ago and too much had happened in the intervening years. 

He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave during his shower. Stiles, an omega wolf—! Would wonders never cease. Peter laughed in amazement, shaking his head at the ceiling. He bet Stiles made a pretty omega. Peter hadn’t ever seen an omega in person, but he knew the histories quite well. 

The Hale pack had never been among the largest of the old families, but it had had one of the best libraries. And Peter, as heir to that library, had spent most of his childhood and youth among its stories. He doubted there were more than four or five pack librarians alive who could rival the knowledge he’d once had at his fingertips.

He sat up with new resolve and flipped open his laptop, opening a tab for flights and another for research on the Duforts. He could squeeze in his final meeting over morning coffee and have his pack on the plane by early afternoon.


	7. Chapter 7

Peter had considered just dropping in on Derek unannounced, but then he thought better of it and decided that having a clear trail of rule-following was wiser. He observed all the social niceties of a visiting alpha and Derek’s written replies, backed up both on a drive and in the cloud by Danny, were blatantly condescending. Derek was feeling confident; the occasional flashes of arrogance he’d shown when he was still building his pack had flourished now that he felt established. 

The betas stayed in San Francisco at Peter’s behest. Danny and Ethan had strong bonds to Peter, but the way Derek—who had been completely sane and grounded by four betas at the time—had turned Danny still unsettled Peter, and he didn’t want his beta near the other alpha unless it was necessary. Braeden, Danny, and Ethan didn’t look too broken up at the idea of enjoying San Francisco with access to the pack bank account. 

Peter rented a sedan and made the slow, winding drive out to his hometown by himself, turning things over in his head, spinning out different scenarios of the future, and then falling back to memories of his childhood. It was evening when he pulled up to the house that Derek had rebuilt. It was constructed right on top of the original structure, but it was both larger and more ostentatious than the old place. Peter brought the car around to the spacious garage, and, seeing it full, parked slightly behind it. 

When he got out, Peter slung his bag over his shoulder and stretched, releasing the kinks of a long drive. As he tilted his head to the side, he spotted something pale blue in the shadows. Curious, Peter moved closer, and found Stiles’ old Jeep resting behind the garage. It had been sitting there for some time, if the low tires and mossy roof were any indication. Peter frowned and headed around to the front of the house. 

Derek opened the door before Peter could knock, taking his hand in a firm grasp and smiling like the lord of the castle welcoming a supplicant. 

“Nephew,” Peter said, pulling at his hand and feeling resistance. He gave Derek a raised eyebrow and Derek abandoned the power play, stepping back to grant Peter entry. 

“How was the trip?” Derek asked, ushering Peter into a tiled entryway. To his right was a staircase and to his left a formal living room with what looked to be Derek’s entire pack lounging on the furniture. 

“Fine,” Peter replied, shifting his bag. 

“Come in,” Derek invited. He took Peter’s bag and guided his uncle through the archway to the front room, where a tall woman with a dimpled smile folded him in a light hug, giving him the chance to scent her and dipping her head in a deference Peter sensed was entirely false. 

“Hello, Alpha Hale,” she said brightly as she stepped back. “I’m Isobel Dufort-Hale. I don’t know if you remember me—when you and your sister visited the Dufort pack, I was a child.”

“And now you’re Derek’s mate. It’s wonderful to see you again—please call me Peter,” he said, nodding genially. “Congratulations, both of you.” 

Peter watched her urge the betas up from their seats with a steely glint in her eye, then he was exchanging banal greetings with a row of hard-eyed teenagers. He remembered them well enough: sullen Erica, stoic Boyd, petulant Jackson, and suspicious Isaac. 

“I heard you have another pack mate,” said Peter, watching Derek closely as they all seated themselves. 

“Yes, our omega, Stiles,” Isobel answered for him, preening. “There hasn’t been omega in the Hale pack for more than a hundred years, but Derek turned one in his first year of pack building.” 

“Indeed.” Peter fixed what he hoped was a suitably impressed expression on his face. 

“He’ll be in any minute with some drinks,” Derek said. 

“I’m surprised he isn’t here already,” Isobel commented with a sparkling little laugh. There was a sharpness under it that set Peter’s teeth on edge and he started to wonder if Derek’s type was just tall, blonde, and sociopathic. History certainly seemed to support the theory.

A slight boy bearing a tray heavy with glasses appeared from the back hallway and Peter had to look twice to recognize Stiles. He was wearing a lightweight, black sweater that emphasized his extreme pallor, and a pair of loosely fitted black slacks. His feet were bare. 

Peter couldn’t tear his gaze away from Stiles as he moved soundlessly around the room, handing drinks to the pack without speaking. He was smaller since taking the bite; his head was probably level with Peter’s throat now, and from what Peter could make out through Stiles’ clothing, he was worryingly slim. He kept his eyes mostly downcast, and his lashes were long and lush, shading the same amber-colored eyes Peter remembered. 

Stiles was…beautiful. Inarguably, compellingly beautiful. But clearly unhappy, Peter thought. It wasn’t clear to him yet if Stiles was suffering from prolonged grief due to loss or if there was something more sinister at work.

“It’s wolfsbane bourbon from a distillery down in Kentucky,” Derek said when Peter accepted a tumbler from Stiles. “Isobel knows the owner and they sent a case for the holidays.”

“Delicious,” Peter said after taking a sip. Stiles hadn’t acknowledged him beyond a slight flush and a barely audible _Alpha Hale_. When he had leaned in to give Peter his drink, Peter could smell that Stiles’ telltale omega sweetness was nearly drowned by the dull, chalky odors of resignation and depression. 

Once everyone had been served and relaxed into low-voiced small talk, Stiles settled in a straight-backed chair near the doorway he had come through and folded his hands together, pressing so tightly his knuckles whitened. He didn’t have his own glass, Peter noticed. 

As he nursed his drink, Peter observed with growing unease the way Derek’s pack interacted. No one in Peter’s pack disputed that Peter was the alpha, but his leadership was granted by mutual respect. Peter never made the mistake of assuming he knew best simply because his body was the strongest. That willingness to work with his betas rather than run roughshod over them was the way his mother had led her pack and then the way his sister, Talia, had led hers. 

Peter wasn’t sure what Derek remembered of Talia’s methods; maybe Laura had been the primary beneficiary of any lessons Talia had dispensed. Peter, as always, felt a pang in his chest when he remembered the results of the red haze of rage and disordered thinking that had governed him after his coma. He pushed the thoughts away and refocused on the scene in front of him. 

Everywhere he looked he saw undercurrents of tension and resentment. Erica clearly worshipped Isobel, imitating her style and her mannerisms, while Isobel seemed to take real pleasure in alternately praising Erica and tearing her down. Peter had seen less effective campaigns of psychological warfare in prison camp documentaries.

Derek was all hearty back slapping and testosterone-fueled one-upmanship with his betas, recounting times Boyd had executed his directives flawlessly, then telling stories of victories won due to Jackson’s disregard for orders. It wasn’t clear if Derek thought Boyd was commendably loyal or only good at following; whether he was saying Jackson’s aggression was desirable or abhorrent. Both young men smelled like a confused mixture of pride and shame, and even Peter couldn’t guess if Derek was complimenting or belittling them. 

Isaac, whom Peter recalled as a timid, hunched figure, seemed to blossom under Isobel’s subtle approval every time he made a cutting remark or disparaging comment. Former victims, Peter thought darkly, could turn into the worst bullies.

Stiles for the most part was ignored by the pack, but, again, Peter wasn’t sure if perhaps Stiles had deliberately withdrawn and the pack didn’t know how to handle it sensitively. Peter knew grief, knew what a powerful isolate it could be. And Stiles would be contending with the dramatic physical and emotional changes said to come along with the omega turn, as well. 

Peter shifted his attention toward Derek and Isobel reluctantly. The way they were with each other…. Peter had been too angry with Derek for a long time to recognize the extent of the damage Kate Argent had done. But seeing the way Isobel nursed every insecurity of Derek’s to serve her own purposes, and how _easy_ Derek made it for her, sickened a part of Peter he’d thought was numb after Laura’s death. 

Peter joked about Derek’s inability to form functional relationships, but confronting the reality unfolding before his eyes was uncomfortable, to say the least. He spared a brief thought for his long-dead sister and was glad Talia didn’t have to witness the state of her son. 

“We should have a pack run while you’re in town, Peter,” Derek said abruptly, interrupting something Boyd had been saying. The beta fell silent immediately and Peter couldn’t help thinking about the indignant protests _he_ would have gotten from any of his own betas, had he cut them off so impolitely. He was struck by a sharp desire to be surrounded by his own pack, his own self-made family, with all their bickering and affection and dependability.

“Derek’s bitten wolves have gotten strong enough to make the full shift even during the half moon,” Isobel said in self-satisfaction. 

“How exciting,” Peter replied, his tone right on the line between sarcasm and sincerity. He thought he saw Isobel’s eyes flash blue for a second before she directed that sickly sweet smile his way. 

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’m sure you’re tired from the trip. Where was it Derek said you came from?”

“L.A.,” Peter answered.

“Just visiting, I think? You haven’t been able to establish any pack grounds yet, is that right?”

“We certainly don’t have a place like this,” Peter said, noncommittal. “And, yes, I am a little tired after the drive. I think I’ll turn in, if there’s nothing else planned.”

“Sleep well, Peter,” Derek said, getting to his feet to walk with Peter to the bottom of the stairs. From the other room, Peter heard Isobel say something in a low voice, then Stiles was standing next to them with Peter’s bag in his hands. 

Derek gave Peter an unnecessarily hard mock-punch to the shoulder and wished him a good night. Isobel, who had glided up silently to stand at her mate’s side, gave Peter the serene version of her ready smile and bid him the same. 

Peter thanked them again for hosting him then escaped upstairs, Stiles silently following with his luggage.

“I can take my own bag, Stiles,” Peter said as soon as they reached the top of the staircase. Stiles stood there for a few seconds, unmoving, and Peter could smell the uncertainty on him. 

“I—okay,” Stiles said quietly, and the low husk of his voice, simultaneously familiar and new, set a small flame alight in Peter’s stomach. Peter’s fingers brushed against Stiles’ as he took the duffel from him and the brief contact sent sparks through Peter’s arm. 

“Is there a specific room I’m supposed to stay in?” Peter asked, ignoring his inconvenient and wildly out of proportion reactions. He had heard that omegas were designed to soothe and appeal to alphas in particular, but this seemed excessive. 

“Oh!” Stiles’ heart rate picked up and the metallic scents of fear and anxiety rose around him. “Y-yes, I’m sorry…Alpha Hale.” 

“It’s Peter,” the alpha said. “I don’t remember you being so formal.” He paused. “Or so quiet. In fact, your profanity was quite inventive after I bent the keys to that ridiculous Jeep.”

“You deserved it,” Stiles retorted, then his eyes widened and he bit his lip so hard Peter saw blood welling up around his teeth. 

“Stiles, stop, you’re hurting yourself,” Peter growled. Driven by instincts he’d never before experienced, Peter reached out to curve his hand around Stiles’ jaw, thumb resting on the boy’s prominent cheekbone. “You’re all right,” he heard himself murmuring. Peter dropped his arm a minute later and gave it a hard look, as though it had acted of its own accord in touching Stiles. 

Stiles stared up at him with wide eyes, his natural omega scent of sweet clover and honey rising through the cloud of anxiety and depression for the first time since Peter’s arrival. Peter found it dizzying and had to exert considerable effort to force back the need to draw Stiles in and hold him there, until he smelled of nothing but contentment and pleasure. 

_Get. A. Fucking. Grip._ Peter told himself savagely, willing down his stirring and completely inappropriate erection. 

“Isobel said to put you in the forest room,” Stiles said, blinking and dropping his gaze again. “It’s at the end of the hall on the right.”

Peter turned his head to take in some air that didn’t make him want to devour the intoxicating creature in front of him and gave a jerky nod. 

“Sounds good,” he replied, gesturing vaguely. “I’ll follow you.” 

And by _follow you_ , it turned out Peter’s brain meant, _stare at your ass_. Stiles led him down a long hallway and pushed the last door on the right open to reveal an airy room with enormous windows on two walls that looked out onto the preserve. 

Peter made himself glance around the room instead of at Stiles and noted that all the usual furniture appeared to be present. Bed, nightstand, dresser. Maybe a chair? His mind wasn’t really on decor. He set the duffel down on something—apparently there was a chair—and faced Stiles again. 

“Stiles,” he began, then stopped, unsure of the best way to approach the wary-looking boy. He got the sense that the wrong words would lead Stiles to bolt. Whatever was on Peter’s face already seemed to be spooking Stiles, and he edged closer to the door without taking his eyes off Peter. 

“Breakfast will be around eight tomorrow,” Stiles said, inching away. “If you stay past the weekend, it’s at six-thirty on weekdays, so that the betas can get to school on time. I usually do something hot, but if you like cereal or whatever, just let me know and I’ll get it ready.” 

“Thank you,” Peter said, wondering what Stiles would do if he just grabbed him and made him hold still while Peter…interrogated him about his life? Demanded to know if Isobel was as much of a raging bitch as she seemed? Asked if Derek was as miserable an alpha as he appeared? Kissed him into a whimpering, pleading mess? Peter made himself listen closely to Stiles’ heartbeat, and it was racing. 

Peter spread his hands in a gesture of peace and tried for an unthreatening smile. 

“Thanks for showing me to my room,” Peter settled on. “Good night.” 

Stiles gave him a short nod and slipped out the door, closing it gently behind him. Peter listened to his quiet footsteps as they returned downstairs and around to the back of the house. The walls had excellent soundproofing, because although Peter could make out voices, he couldn’t identify the speakers or the words. 

He found a second door that led to an ensuite bathroom and took his time washing the stink of recycled air and chemical cleaners off his skin. Peter scrubbed thoroughly, slowing when he reached his annoyingly hard and insistent cock. He tried to turn his thoughts to the last fuck he’d had—a muscular rancher a few weeks ago in Idaho who’d had a lot of interesting leather gear adapted from tack…or the month before that, when he’d joined Braeden with one of her regular hook-up partners in Seattle, a very flexible coffee roaster with perky tits who had eaten Braeden out while Peter screwed into her with deep, powerful strokes…yes, that was good, Peter was close, and he hadn’t let any thoughts of a too-young omega with sad brown eyes…oh, _fuck._

Peter’s hand stuttered to a stop and he leaned his forehead against the shower wall with a groan. The water rinsed away his release and he let his arms hang by his sides. All it had taken to push him over the edge was the memory of Stiles’ honey-clover scent and the thought of what that pale skin would look like bare for Peter’s pleasure. 

He turned off the water and dried himself, then slipped into sleep pants and plugged in his phone while deliberately avoiding anything Stiles-related. He’d get the lay of the land tomorrow. Maybe things weren’t as dysfunctional as they had seemed that evening. Maybe Peter could report to Alan that Stiles was just fine—still grieving, understandably, but nothing to worry about. 

Peter flipped off the light, closed his eyes in the darkness, and listened to the near-silence Derek had built into his house.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter was downstairs at seven-forty the next morning, dressed and groomed and hoping to find his conclusions the night before had been incorrect. He didn’t encounter anyone on his way to the kitchen, but the smell of bacon, waffles, and coffee drew him forward. 

Stiles was alone in the well-appointed kitchen, surrounded by bowls of various sliced fruits and two pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice. He was patiently pouring identical amounts of batter into a waffle iron then moving the finished products into a warming drawer beneath the oven. Coffee had been made already and from the smell of it, there was bacon cooking in the top part of the stove. 

Peter watched from the doorway as Stiles moved from task to task, setting a large table, folding napkins, checking on the waffles and the bacon. His movements were smooth and practiced, and he looked completely absorbed. 

“Good morning,” Peter said after a few minutes. Stiles stiffened then turned. 

“Good morning,” he returned politely. “Would you like some coffee, Al—Peter?”

“I can get it myself, thank you. You look like you have your hands full,” Peter replied, glancing around the room to see if he could identify the cupboard most likely to contain mugs. 

“No, no, sit down, please,” Stiles insisted, waving Peter toward a stool at the granite kitchen island. He poured a cup of coffee for Peter, who said he took it black. Which was untrue, but Peter was already uncomfortable with Stiles waiting on him when he was clearly in the middle of preparing breakfast for the entire pack. Peter wondered if the pack took turns cooking the weekend meal, or if they ever did it all together, as Peter had happy memories of doing with the old Hale pack.

As the clock crept closer to eight, Stiles heated a frying pan and began to sauté apples in butter and cinnamon, glancing up at the time every few minutes. Peter, unable to sit idle any longer, walked around to the stove top and picked up the spatula Stiles had set down so he could start moving the waffles to the bar. 

“Let me take care of this,” Peter said firmly. Stiles hesitated, glancing from the bacon that still had to be drained to the clock. 

“All right,” he said. “But just—”

“I’m actually a competent cook, Stiles,” Peter assured him. “In fact, you might be surprised at how good these taste.”

Stiles nodded his thanks and arranged the rest of the food in a self-serve setup along the edge of the island’s bar. Peter dumped the sizzling apples into a large white bowl and let Stiles fuss over its placement. At five past eight, Isobel and Derek walked in and picked up plates Peter had seen Stiles warm before setting out. Isaac showed up shortly after, then Peter heard Erica and Boyd pull into the drive, with the sound of Jackson’s Porsche right behind them. 

The betas waited for Derek and Isobel to serve themselves while Stiles poured everyone coffee and juice. When Erica went to help herself to some bacon, Isobel made a reproving noise. 

“Wait for Alpha Hale, Erica,” she scolded, then flicked her eyes down Erica’s body with raised eyebrows. 

“Oh, right,” Erica muttered, deferring with a glower to Peter’s alpha status. 

Peter filled his plate, disliking the prickle of the betas’ stares. He wasn’t accustomed to such rigid hierarchy in his own pack, and Talia hadn’t been too strict unless it was a very formal event with more than one pack. 

He joined Derek and Isobel at the table, and when he glanced at Erica’s plate, it held more fruit than anything else. 

“Did you sleep well, Peter?” Derek asked. 

“Like the dead,” Peter replied with an innocent smile. His eyes followed Stiles as the boy seated himself at the end of the table next to Jackson, where he proceeded to nibble listlessly at the edge of a dry waffle. 

“Your note wasn’t very informative,” Isobel said, spreading the syrupy fried apples over her waffle. “Was there something specific you hoped to accomplish here?”

“Just visiting my nephew and seeing the house,” Peter answered. “Derek extended an open invitation a while back, and I had some time to take him up on it.”

Isobel bit into her breakfast and her expression curdled. 

“Stiles, what is in these apples?” she demanded. “This is not what I asked for.” 

Peter heard a scraping sound and found Stiles moving rapidly to Isobel’s shoulder, holding his hands out for the offending plate. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, hurrying over to the trash to dump the waffle. 

“Something wrong with the apples, Isobel?” Peter questioned as Stiles quickly got Isobel a new plate, replaced its contents, and put it down in front of her _sans_ apples. Then he picked up the bowl of apples and tossed them into the trash after Isobel’s first breakfast. 

“They tasted of nutmeg. I don’t care for nutmeg,” she said, heaping a mixture of cut-up strawberries and bananas onto her new waffle. 

“That was my fault,” Peter said. “Derek’s grandmother always put fresh nutmeg in her fried apples and I thought it might be nice to make them that way while I was in town. I didn’t realize you avoided it.”

“Stiles put you to work, hm?” she asked, her voice trying for playful and not entirely succeeding.

“I asked to join in the cooking,” Peter corrected her. “When Derek was a boy, everyone used to make Saturday breakfast together. Talia’s pancakes were legendary in our family.” 

“Your alpha served the pack?” Isaac asked with a look of disbelief. “I guess we do things more the traditional way now.”

“Oh?” Peter’s amusement bordered on derision. “Know a lot about werewolf traditions, do you?” 

“The Dufort pack has been in this country since the eighteenth century,” Erica said proudly. “Isobel told us they’ve held pack lands since before Oregon became a state. Alpha Dufort was studying to be the pack historian before she had to take over leadership from her sister, so Isobel knows all about the way packs are supposed to be.”

“Is that right?” Peter turned his gaze to Isobel, thoughtful. “And is that where you learned how to handle your pack mates the _traditional_ way? From your current pack historian?”

“Oh, mother didn’t appoint anyone after she became the alpha,” Isobel replied lightly. “She knew everything that was necessary already, and she educated our pack herself.”

“I see.” Peter reeled at the sheer conceit of that decision— _Peter_ , a self-proclaimed egomaniac, was disturbed by Elizabeth Dufort’s arrogance. A pack historian was one of the ways to check the alpha’s power and ensure the pack wasn’t wholly dominated by a single person. In fact, Peter was already trying to determine which of his betas would be best suited to the position, even if their pack was still tiny.

The betas chattered to each other for the rest of the meal and Peter spent his time exchanging insults disguised as smalltalk with Isobel. Derek contributed the occasional sentence, but mostly concentrated on eating a prodigious quantity of bacon. 

Stiles waited until the meal was concluded and then cleared the table and began washing up. Peter lingered in the kitchen for a few minutes to see if he could help Stiles, but the omega declined his offers of assistance and asked him to please just go sit down. Peter, frowning, followed after the rest of the pack, who drifted into a large family room of sorts, with wood-paneled walls, leather furniture, and a staggeringly large home theater system. 

Peter settled on an oversize armchair and watched as Erica, Boyd, and Isaac draped themselves on one of the deep couches while Derek and Isobel reclined on a love seat. Jackson slouched on the chair opposite Peter and glanced at his phone. 

“Lydia running late?” Isobel asked him. 

Jackson shrugged. “Nah, she should be here any minute.” 

“Lydia’s part of your pack?” Peter asked. 

“It’s something my mother’s pack has never tried, but Derek tells me his former alpha had a lot of success with,” Isobel said. “Maybe you remember, Peter, that Talia Hale used to allow non-shifter supernaturals to be honorary pack members. Lydia as a banshee can do things we can’t.”

The redhead in question drove up the road leading to the Hale house as they discussed her, and by the time Isobel finished talking, Lydia was posing in the doorway, hand placed just so on a cocked hip. 

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Lydia’s voice was frosty. 

“Peter’s still my uncle,” Derek replied. “You don’t have to spend any extra time with him, but he's a part of my family, even if he has tried to start his own pack.” 

Lydia sniffed and perched on the arm of Jackson’s chair, twining her hand with his and purposely turning her face away from Peter. He couldn’t blame her, he supposed, since he’d hijacked her subconscious and commanded her unwilling participation in a resurrection ritual. His other option had been permanent death, so he had judged it a necessary…inconvenience, but he could see why she might hold a grudge. In his defense, he’d been at least seventy-five percent crazy at the time. 

“So what’s the big threat?” Lydia asked. “I had planned on shopping for my prom dress today, you know, but Jackson said it was urgent.”

Peter raised his eyebrows at her tone, waiting to see how it would be received. 

“Sorry about that, Lydia, I know you’ve been looking forward to finding the right outfit,” Isobel said, sounding remorseful. Peter blinked, not having heard that voice from Isobel before. “But when Derek and Isaac were out earlier this week, they saw werewolves in town who don’t belong to any pack we know.”

“So when do we let them know that this territory is taken?” Erica asked with a vicious grin. 

“We’ll find out where they’re staying and invite them to leave,” Derek replied. 

“And if they don’t want to go peacefully?” Boyd asked. 

Derek shrugged. “We’ll make them.”

“Derek,” Peter said carefully. “Are you sure this pack is hostile? As I recall, Satomi used to host other wolves fairly regularly. Have you checked with her pack?”

“Alpha Ito knows the Hale pack doesn’t allow trespassing. We mark our borders and we expect a formal request if other shifters want to enter,” Isobel informed him crisply. 

“That’s a new policy since Talia’s time,” Peter said. “Have you ever spotted these other wolves in the preserve, or were they maybe just passing through?”

“A lot has changed since Derek’s mother was alive,” said Isobel. “If you let one thing slide, you could lose control of everything.”

Peter doubted a lecture on logical fallacies would find fertile ground, so he kept his mouth shut, but inwardly he was genuinely perturbed by what he had seen on the visit so far. 

“Lydia, do you sense anything coming?” Isobel asked the redhead. 

Lydia put a hand to her temple and adopted a look of deep concentration. The entire pack seemed to hang on her every movement. Peter barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Lydia was quite bright, but apparently being part of the Hale pack had indulged her more self-centered impulses, and she clearly wasn’t above manufacturing drama. 

He had admired her intelligence and ambition the last time around, but she had been determined to maintain control over her life by tightly regulating her image. Before, that had been student body queen bee; now it looked to be supernatural heroine. He wondered what it would take for her to heed her more compassionate instincts and guessed she wouldn’t find that catalyst in her current situation. 

“I don’t feel anything unusual,” Lydia concluded. “But”—here she looked at Jackson—“please be careful.”

“We’ll look for a scent during our pack run,” Derek directed. “If we don’t find anything in the forest, we’ll keep looking in town until we’re sure they’re gone.”

“Seems kind of extreme,” Peter tried again. 

“Peter, when you have established lands, you have to defend them,” Derek said. Peter opened his mouth, outraged at the condescension, but Derek kept talking. “You never know when a threat is going to crop up, and strange werewolves in my territory could go sideways quickly. It’s better to act first. Just trusting that people won’t hurt you isn’t a great way to get ahead.”

Peter looked at the nods and hums of agreement around the room and subsided. He listened quietly while Derek made plans for the evening run with his betas and Isobel suggested she and Lydia go shopping together once the meeting was over. Peter saw Stiles sitting on the fringe of the group in the chair nearest the door. His eyes were partially closed and he looked exhausted. 

“Stiles, I think the boys are going to watch a movie while we girls go to look for prom dresses,” Isobel said, and Stiles’ eyes snapped open. 

“Okay,” he said. 

“Why don’t you make them some popcorn and get some drinks started,” Isobel said, nothing about it a suggestion. “You know what everyone likes.”

“Sure,” Stiles said, getting up with a wince and putting his hand to his side. 

“Come on, I’ll drive.” Isobel linked elbows with Lydia on one side and Erica on the other and they left, Lydia talking about the sad state of the local Macy’s and Isobel asking if they had ordered boutonniere for their dates yet. 

Isaac poked Jackson. “What color did Lydia tell you to wear?” 

Jackson scowled. “Shut up. I’ll wear what I want to.” He glanced at Boyd. “What about you, man?”

“Erica doesn’t care about that shit,” Boyd replied, shrugging. “She told me to get a nice hotel room for after and to pick her up on time.”

“Do you even have a date, Isaac?” Jackson raised his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, asshole, I do. I had girls asking _me_ this year.” Isaac looked offended. 

“I guess they sense your animal magnetism,” Jackson snorted. 

“Knock it off,” Derek muttered, taking a swipe at Jackson’s head. “I’m gonna go work out—I know you idiots are going to play video games the rest of the afternoon.”

“You just don’t like to lose, old man,” Isaac teased. 

“Shut up,” Derek said, ruffling Isaac’s hair as he left the room. 

Peter ducked out once Derek was gone, looking for Stiles in the kitchen. He could hear the betas good-naturedly shoving at each other while they set up their game. Why wasn’t Stiles joining them? Peter didn’t like the pattern he was seeing. 

Stiles was leaning over the counter closest to the stove, head resting on his arms, as he waited for the oil to heat up. The popcorn kernels were in a jar next to him and he had already set out two large bowls and a stack of napkins. He lifted his head from his forearms briefly as Peter walked in then put it back down. 

“What do you want to drink, Peter?” he mumbled. 

“Stiles, what’s going on in this house? Are you all right?” Peter asked baldly. The questions made Stiles jerk upright and turn around, eyes panicked. 

“What do you mean? Did Isobel—Is there something you need?” 

“It’s nothing to do with Isobel,” Peter found himself speaking in a much more soothing tone than anything he was used to adopting. “Scott’s mom is worried about you. She can’t get a hold of your phone and she heard you dropped out of school.” 

“Scott….” Stiles went white around the mouth and Peter worried he might faint. “Scott’s mom—but she didn’t—my phone isn’t….” He shook his head and braced trembling hands on the counter behind him. 

“You still have people who care about you,” Peter said gently. “Alan Deaton called me from Florida to ask me to check in and make sure you’re okay.”

Stiles gave a short, ugly laugh. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m great, Peter.” He swept his arm around in a wild gesture. “Can’t you tell? This is life as an omega werewolf and it’s…it’s….” He laughed again, but softly. Peter realized that even Stiles’ loudest words hadn’t been above a normal speaking tone. 

Peter still wasn’t sure exactly what was taking place in Derek’s pack, but one thing was clear: Stiles needed help and, for whatever reason, he wasn’t getting it. In two long strides, Peter reached him, flipping off the gas on the stovetop and bringing Stiles forward to rest against him. 

Stiles resisted at first, but when Peter didn’t do anything except hold him loosely, letting him feel that he could step free at any point, Stiles put his head against Peter’s chest and clutched Peter’s shirt as if he thought Peter was about to disappear. 

Gradually, Stiles’ ashy, chalky smell of despair lifted a little and Peter could once again detect the omega-sweet clover and honey scent that Stiles had developed since he was turned. It was just as heady this time around, Peter found as he tried and failed to keep himself from inhaling deeply. Combined with the feel of Stiles’ warmth as he trusted Peter with his weight, it was potent indeed, and Peter’s hands began to move in slow, even strokes over the length of Stiles’ back. 

Stiles sank into Peter further and rubbed his cheek against the expensive material of Peter’s shirt with a barely audible sigh. Peter felt marvelous. His alpha instincts were drowning out his more rational mind, and he wanted to purr with satisfaction. This little omega was clinging to him and smelling of contentment. Clearly, Peter was the best alpha in the world. Faraway, distant, pragmatic Peter was extremely curious as to why Derek wasn’t just cuddled up with Stiles whenever remotely possible. How could Derek resist him? 

Peter’s hand brushed over Stiles’ waist and the boy stiffened, pulling away. 

“What is it?” Peter asked, concerned he had overstepped. 

“Nothing,” Stiles replied, blinking rapidly and looking away from Peter like he was waking from a dream. “It’s nothing, I—I need to get this stuff made and out to the betas.”

“Stiles, are you…hurt?” Peter asked as he watched Stiles touch his side gingerly. Had Stiles pulled away out of _pain_ , not displeasure over Peter’s liberties? What kinds of things was Derek getting involved in that his omega pack member would be carrying injuries for more than a couple of days? Peter hadn’t seen Stiles leave the house since he had arrived from L.A.

“It’s _nothing_ ,” Stiles snapped, and this time he didn’t back down. While Peter was enormously relieved to see some sign of the spirit he remembered, he was becoming increasingly worried. 

“Stiles, if you’re injured—”

“I’m not—I’m not _hurt_ , not really. I…tripped yesterday and fell down the stairs. You remember how uncoordinated I am? I guess that didn’t go away even after I got all…you know…wolfed up. Or whatever. And omegas don’t heal right. I mean, they don’t heal the same way normal wolves do. Maybe you didn’t know that.” Stiles’ words tripped over one another in his haste to explain, and he put distance between himself and Peter under the guise of getting cold drinks from the refrigerator. 

“Omegas don’t heal _right?_ ” Peter repeated in disbelief. “What are you talking about with this _normal wolf_ nonsense? Omegas are rare and important to pack dynamics. Any pack would be fortunate—beyond fortunate to have all three types represented.” 

“Yeah, Isobel’s told me all about how _valuable_ omegas are to the pack,” Stiles muttered. Peter had the foreign sensation of being adrift and outmatched. Stiles was bitter and pained and depressed and _accepting_ of it on a level Peter wasn’t sure how to combat. 

“Sit down,” Peter said, cautiously herding Stiles toward a stool. 

“But the popcorn—” 

“I’ll make the fucking popcorn, Stiles, just…just hang on.” 

Peter wasn’t certain why Stiles felt so strongly about following Isobel’s request for snacks, but if Peter got the stupid task out of the way, he could take Stiles outside, somewhere they could talk without being overheard, and figure what in the hell was going on. 

He dumped popcorn kernels in the oil and let them heat up, then shook the pan angrily until the popcorn was done. Stiles’ eyes tracked his movements as Peter divided the popcorn into the two bowls on the counter and salted it haphazardly. 

“Stay here,” Peter instructed Stiles, and carried the bowls out to the betas, who didn’t seem to notice when he deposited their snack onto a side table. He went back into the kitchen for tall glasses of soda Stiles had poured during his popcorn-ferrying mission and took them across the hall, as well. 

“Derek’s betas are now in exactly zero danger of needing sustenance,” Peter said upon his return. “Would you go for a walk with me, please?” 

Stiles cast a trapped look around the kitchen, but nodded, apparently sensing that Peter would not be put off. The two of them left through the back door and stepped into the cool, green-scented breeze of early spring. Peter didn’t notice the bite to the air, but Stiles, dressed again in a thin, black sweater, shivered. 

“Are you cold?” Peter asked, surprised. Stiles shrugged. “Do you want to run back in and get a jacket?” Peter persisted. 

“No, thanks,” Stiles answered curtly. “I’m—”

“Fine?” Peter suggested drily. He glanced down. “Maybe you should put on some shoes, though.”

Stiles flushed all the way to his throat and looked down at his bare feet. 

“I-I don’t need them if we’re just in the backyard,” he said. 

“Who says we’re staying in the backyard?” 

“Oh…I—” Stiles broke off, starting to look and smell alarmingly anxious. “I just…I don’t want to go too far. In case anyone needs…anything.”

Peter stared at him, nonplussed. “Stiles, you’re a member of the pack, not its live-in help. So what if Jackman gets thirsty and has to walk into the kitchen? Those betas are fully ambulatory and utilize at least fifty percent of their available brainpower. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.” 

“No, I—okay, yeah, they know how to pour soda, but….” Stiles hesitated and Peter took a calming breath, trying not to get frustrated. 

“Just tell me,” he said. “Tell me whatever thing is keeping you from putting on shoes and going for a walk on _your own pack’s land_.” He paused, realizing there was a very likely reason Stiles would refuse to accompany him. “Is it me? I realize that I was…unreliable last year. I took advantage of Lydia and Derek. I know you probably recall our interlude in the parking garage more clearly than I do, and I’m equally certain it’s not flattering to me. However, I assure you, I am not going to attack you in the woods. Please, at least walk past the tree line with me.” 

“I _can’t_ ,” Stiles whispered, desperate unhappiness turning his voice gravelly. 

Peter looked at him with incomprehension. 

“I mean, I actually, physically can’t,” Stiles continued, pushing up one of his sleeves so Peter could see a thick, silicone-encased band around one slim wrist. 

“What. The fuck. Is that?” Peter asked, too calm. 

Stiles glanced back at the house warily. 

“Look, I can get down to the generator shed. We can go inside and talk there,” Stiles said, and Peter, still upsettingly unsure of what was happening, walked with him to the far edge of the house’s yard and into a dim, musty shed. Stiles closed the door behind them and tugged on a string overhead to bring a single, flickering bulb to life. Peter, glancing down again at the industrial-looking bracelet on Stiles’ arm, was starting to think the horror-movie vibe was appropriate. 

“Please explain,” Peter told him. 

Stiles perched on the large generator, restlessly pulling at the bracelet. 

“Late last year, over the holidays…I had a-an episode, I guess you could call it.” He stopped for a few seconds, maybe thinking about how to phrase things. Peter nodded encouragingly. “Uh, some stuff happened and then I was missing my dad. A lot. I—well, Isobel’s pack, the Duforts? A bunch of them had visited for Thanksgiving and it was kind of…overwhelming. The cooking, the cleaning, and-and the stuff you do for guests, you know? So, so right after they left, I was a little short on sleep and…things…caught up with me. I just wanted—I wanted to go for a walk, to get away from the…the…things.

“So I did it. I walked out the door and I kept walking. I don’t know how far I went. I don’t remember. It was cold outside, and there had been a big storm the day before. If I wasn’t a werewolf, I probably would have been a lot worse off than I was. Derek found me, eventually. I was…pretty messed up. I had a broken arm from when I fell off a ledge and it took a few days to heal. I couldn’t tell anyone exactly why I had left, just that I needed to…get out.”

Stiles paused to pull his sleeve back down and dart a glance up at Peter to see how he was taking it. Peter concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression and gestured for Stiles to continue.

“I don’t know if you know this…I didn’t know, but the Hunters, some of the stuff they use is for, like, containment? And Isobel knows this guy, he helps supply Hunters with some of their tech shit. She, uh, she got me this—” Stiles waved the arm with the bracelet “—this…whatever it is. It has a tracker in it, so Derek won’t ever have to guess where I am. And-and to be sure I don’t…hurt myself again, it will beep when I get to the edge of the yard, front or back.” 

Peter cleared his throat, shoving down his revulsion. “And if you ignore the auditory warning?”

“It, uh, it starts to give off this really intense, localized noise at a frequency that makes werewolves…pass out.” Stiles explained. “To…keep me safe. From leaving by myself. It won't stop unless...someone...turns it off.” 

“Can you take it off?” Peter was afraid he already knew the answer. 

“Um, no. I can’t take it off. Because, you know, what good would it do anyone if I didn’t have it on? Isobel knows how to get it open, and if I ever—I mean, _when_ I need to go somewhere, she’d…she’s….”

Stiles dropped his head into his hands and shook it, scrubbing his fingers through hair that was much longer than Peter remembered from Stiles’ human days. 

“Stiles.” Peter delicately brought Stiles’ chin up, hoping he could find the right thing to say. “Are you a prisoner here? Do they hurt you?”

“No!” Stiles drew back from him, more denials on his lips. Peter let him go, keeping eye contact and willing the boy to trust him. His mind was already leaping forward, making plans within plans, mentally dividing the answers he needed into those he could get from his betas and those he needed to resolve on the ground. _Is that manacle linked to something buried around the border of the house? Does it open with a code or a physical key? Is it possible to open it remotely? Once the bracelet is off, will Stiles come willingly, or is he too damaged to help himself?_

Peter forced his gaze steady and his expression open, waiting to see what Stiles would do next. To his utter shock, Stiles fell forward into Peter, burrowing into his shoulder and wrapping his arms almost painfully around Peter’s chest. 

“I don’t want to die, Peter, but it’s been so hard,” Stiles whispered. 

“Who’s talking about dying?” Peter asked quietly, placing his hands with care on Stiles’ back and shoulders. 

“If I leave…I don’t even care so much about the bracelet, really. I can’t survive without the pack. I don’t know if every horrible thing Isobel says about omegas is true or not, but…I can’t believe I’m only good for service. And that I have to stay here, always, trapped…it’s awful, Peter, it’s awful to be this-this _dependent_.” 

“Oh, Stiles,” Peter sighed, tightening his arms slightly to provide his little omega with a better sense of security. “You’ve gotten some terrible information if that’s what you’ve been told.”

“It’s real,” Stiles insisted, not moving from the circle of Peter’s arms. “I can feel it. I need the pack around me or I won’t make it. I want to—I _want_ to please Derek because he’s the alpha. It’s like a sickness. I hate it. I _hate_ being an omega.” His voice dropped even lower, to a register Peter could barely make out. “And Isobel…she’s _dangerous_. She…she’s done things.”

“What kind of _things?_ ” Peter demanded, keeping his hands gentle even though he knew he sounded sharp. Stiles shook his head as much as he could while pressing up hard against Peter’s chest. 

“It’s safer if you don’t know,” he whispered. 

“Let’s leave that for now,” Peter said after taking a few breaths. He was fairly certain Stiles was going to tell him Isobel was abusive, but he wasn’t going to push for the words. “Listen. I can take you with me when I go—I can transfer your pack bonds to my pack. It’s entirely possible, even if your current alpha doesn’t cooperate, so long as you are fully invested. One of my betas is a technological genius, and also extremely devious. I can put him to work on figuring out that…bracelet abomination tonight. It might take a few days, but—”

“ _No_.” Stiles’ whole body shook and the sour scent of his terror crowded out even the persistent mold aroma of the shed. “Peter, no. You can’t take that risk, you _can’t_.”

“Do you think I’m afraid of Isobel Dufort?” Peter was almost offended. 

“You should be,” Stiles muttered against Peter’s shirt. 

“Stiles,” Peter began slowly. “I understand that Isobel may have…taken advantage of you, especially because you’re—”

“An omega?” Stiles interrupted, pulling back from Peter and scowling at him. 

“I was going to say _grieving_ ,” Peter replied mildly. Stiles kept the small distance between them but nodded for Peter to continue. “I’m only pointing out that I’m an alpha and not in her sphere of influence. If you willingly transfer your bond to my pack, it’s entirely within the law. Fair according most traditions, even. She may not like it, but she can’t _do_ anything about it.”

“You think she can’t touch you because you’re a big, powerful alpha? You think I’m a weak omega who can’t defend himself? I—I know I might not be very impressive right now, but I haven’t become an idiot just because I drew the short straw on werewolf day. I’m _warning_ you about Isobel. Don’t—don’t antagonize her. Just make your visit short and leave. You’ve been decent to me this time around and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Peter, please, just go.” 

“Stiles—” Peter broke off, hearing Derek rejoin his betas and all of them start to move around. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ll get that bracelet off you. Just…hold on. I know you’re scared, but—” He hurriedly drew Stiles out of the shed and around to stand by the fire pit in the backyard. 

Stiles allowed himself to be shepherded forward, then stood across the charred logs from Peter, face set in lines of fear and anger. 

“I’m trying to help you,” Stiles breathed, right before Jackson stuck his head out the back door and yelled for Stiles to come back in—and to demand what he had been doing out there for so long with Peter.

Peter followed after Stiles as the boy hurried inside, murmuring something about answering Peter’s questions regarding the yard and garden. They all went back to the television room, and Peter watched the way the betas treated Stiles with new eyes, trying to decide if they were all mistreating him or if Isobel—as he suspected—was the predominant offender. Earlier Peter had wondered if Stiles was deliberately withdrawing from his pack to deal with his losses in solitude, but now he thought Stiles chose the farthest-away spots to discourage physical contact. When given the opportunity, the betas regularly attempted to impart their scent to Stiles, putting their arms around his shoulders, running their cheeks over the top of his head…but none of it seemed _affectionate_ , it was entirely proprietary. 

It became clear where the behavior had originated when Derek repeated his betas’ scent-marking and accompanied every touch of his hand with a request. 

As he squeezed Stiles’ shoulder: _Would you get everyone drink refills?_

As he carelessly brushed through Stiles’ hair: _Did you figure out what we’re doing for dinner?_

As he patted Stiles’ back: _Run an extra load of laundry this weekend to make sure there are enough towels in the mudroom for the rest of us when we get back from the full-moon run._

The last one Peter couldn’t keep quiet about. He tried for a bland expression and looked over at Derek. 

“Don’t you run as a pack, at least during the full moon?” he asked.

Something guilty and resentful flitted over Derek’s face before it smoothed out and he forced a smile. 

“Stiles is still having some hard days, I guess,” Derek replied. “He stopped wanting to go on runs a while ago.” His changeable, green-gray eyes bored into Stiles as he added, “Isn’t that right?”

Stiles nodded, staring at the pattern on the rug. 

“Yes, alpha,” he agreed tonelessly. 

Peter gripped the arm of his chair, fighting his instinctive need to immediately take Stiles away from this seething pit of vipers, somewhere he could laugh again, and use his smart mouth and— Peter halted that train of thought before it ran too far, reminding himself that he was, of all things, extremely patient when necessary. And intuition told him this situation was volatile and more complex than he had fully grasped. Charging in when he was alone in a potentially hostile pack wasn’t wise or likely to improve his longevity. 

Instead, he made himself lounge, relaxed, against the cushioned back of the armchair, sliding on his habitual mask of sardonic amusement. 

“Well, I don’t expect any of your betas to be able to keep up with me,” he smirked. 

“I don’t know,” Derek replied. “Isaac’s pretty quick.” 

Peter shrugged a little, letting himself exchange empty, posturing remarks with Derek on autopilot while the majority of his thoughts were on the issue of getting Stiles out. Peter still had to get a feel for the pack’s schedules, but he was fairly confident that a full-moon run would both leave Stiles alone and provide ample distraction for Derek and his betas. It shouldn’t be too hard to incite some sort of intra-pack conflict, even in wolf form. Maybe especially in wolf form. Then Peter could slip back while the others were occupied. 

Assuming Danny could get the bracelet off by then. The full moon was only two days away. Peter fell silent, letting Derek get the last word, and closed his eyes partway, watching under his lashes as the betas settled back into video games, Derek smugly read a book, and Stiles went back to the kitchen to start prep work for the pack dinner. 

When everything felt lazy and relaxed, Peter made his excuses and wandered outside to give Danny a call. It was time to start some serious plotting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. I’m gearing up to sell my house and make a cross-country move (my fifth such move as an adult, good god) and my coping mechanism has been to mainline Jack/Nathan Eureka fic while not writing my own little neglected stories. You know what there isn't a ton of? Jack/Nathan Eureka fic, tragically. 
> 
> Current real-estate woe: My yard is a prime example of Post-Apocalyptic Chic. Not into this look? NO ONE ELSE IS, EITHER.

Stiles avoided Peter over the next couple of days, and Peter had his hands full surreptitiously communicating with his betas while maintaining a facade of calm toward Derek’s pack. When he wasn’t working on answering Danny’s questions about the bracelet’s appearance and how it seemed to be controlled, Peter was reaching out to old friends and contacts. Braeden, he knew, was doing the same. When the night of the full moon came, they had to be organized and ready. 

Peter had been telling Stiles the truth when he said there was no law barring Stiles from leaving Derek’s pack to join another. Still, Peter had seen enough of the new Hale pack to recognize that simply walking out the door with Stiles—even if they could discount the bracelet—was unlikely to be an acceptable move. And that meant they needed time. Time away from the Hale pack, time for Stiles to bond with a new pack, time for them to make new pack bonds official and enduring. And that meant, well, an escape. Peter didn’t trust Isobel or Derek at that point to adhere to pack law. He was sure if Stiles tried to leave with Peter there would be trouble.

So during pack meals, Peter said nothing as Stiles prepared, served, and cleaned up. He kept an eye on Stiles’ activities during the day and saw no sign of any schoolwork. Given what he’d seen so far, he doubted Stiles had ever been working toward a high-school degree. His education must have ended on his last day at Beacon Hills High. 

What Stiles had said in the generator shed nagged at Peter in odd moments. Stiles hadn’t just been indicating that he was afraid of Isobel—he had been afraid _for Peter_. Surely Stiles didn’t think Isobel could physically take Peter down, or get him into a situation similar to Stiles’. Peter didn’t dwell on it too much, because, to his mind, there were more pressing concerns. But it did make him wonder. Stiles, although he had been quite distractible as a human, was also brilliant and a gifted investigator. Peter didn’t doubt Stiles’ skittish response to Isobel was motivated in large part to abuse she had inflicted, but that hadn’t seemed to be what Stiles was worried about when he had warned Peter against her. 

Danny, it turned out, had at least as many sources as Isobel for obtaining and learning about Hunter tools, and shortly after Peter had set him to the task of remotely disabling the bracelet, Danny and Ethan were on their way to San Diego to meet up with Danny’s Hunter tech contact. Braeden, meanwhile, was working on another prong of Peter’s plan. 

By the time the morning of the full moon dawned, things were steadily moving into place, and Peter was restless, both eager and anxious. His wolf was harder to contain during the full moon, but he knew Derek’s pack would be even less in control of themselves and it shouldn’t take too much to create a situation where Peter could run back to the house and get Stiles while the Hale pack was otherwise occupied. 

It was a clear, sunny day, and it finally looked like spring, with flowers bursting into bloom all around the rebuilt Hale house. Peter moodily watched from the kitchen window as Stiles moved through a series of chores—weeding and mulching and then washing Derek’s Camaro. The betas had all departed for the high school much earlier, while Derek so far had exercised in his home gym and spent several hours on the phone, first in a tense conversation with Elizabeth Dufort over what sounded like a volatile situation with the Oregon state government over potentially requisitioning some pack land, then with a number of collector-car enthusiasts. Apparently Derek added to the Hale fortune through buying and selling extremely rare and expensive cars. Peter had yet to determine just what Isobel did all day, but so far it hadn’t included being in the house, and often involved coming back with shopping bags. 

Peter wondered if he should have kept Stiles apprised of his plans, but after their last interaction, he had been worried Stiles might interfere and make it harder to get him free. It smacked of condescension, but Peter couldn’t risk letting Stiles rot away under the malign rule of Isobel and Derek, even if it was in service of protecting Peter. He couldn’t. 

So Peter had waited until the morning of the full moon to get Stiles alone and fill him in. Peter headed outside where Stiles was rinsing the car, planning to use the sound of the hose to mask his words from any potential eavesdroppers. Before he got through the door, Isobel and several of the betas all pulled up more or less simultaneously. Stiles, presumably hearing them, hastily finished his job, taking the time to carefully run a shammy towel over the car before hurrying inside to join his pack. 

By the time Stiles got in, everyone had gathered in the front room and Isobel was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace with the feral grace of a born predator, a display Peter found showy and tiresome. Derek waited for his pack members to seat themselves and his mate to settle into relative stillness before addressing them. 

“Isaac saw the rogue pack in town again,” Derek said. 

“Wait, how are they a rogue pack?” Peter couldn’t help breaking in. 

“They are trespassing and have been for several days.” Derek threw a frown in his uncle’s direction. “We talked about this, Peter.”

“I thought you were going to talk to Satomi before taking any action,” Peter protested. “Did you do that?”

“We communicated with Alpha Ito shortly after I moved here,” Isobel informed him. “She was made aware of our pack’s new policies.”

“But historically, the town itself hasn’t explicitly been Hale land,” Peter pointed out. “I can see where Satomi might have thought you were referring to the legal _Hale property_ , which is within the preserve.”

“Beacon Hills is mine,” Derek growled. “The Hales founded this town and all the land the city sits on belonged to our family.”

Peter opened his mouth then closed it. What did it matter, in the end? Derek and Isobel wouldn’t be deterred from chasing the interloping werewolves out, and Peter planned to be gone by morning. He shrugged his acceptance and let Derek continue uninterrupted. 

“Isaac is keeping an eye on them. There’s an alpha and four betas. Their presence makes it clear Satomi isn’t respecting our authority,” said Derek. “Alpha Dufort warned me this might happen. Other packs are testing us, trying to see if we’ll hold firm when challenged. We will.”

Derek’s phone chirped and he glanced down at it. When he looked up again, his eyes were shining red and his fangs had dropped. 

“They’re moving toward the preserve,” he rasped. “Let’s go get them.” 

\- X -

In Peter’s opinion, the other pack had never intended to encroach on the actual borders of the legal Hale land. If they hadn’t been harried by Derek’s pack, they likely would have given the property a wide berth. But Derek and his betas were full of territorial aggression, and they ran in wolf form to meet Isaac on the far reaches of the preserve, where the forest met the town. 

When they reached the other pack, Peter counted four unfamiliar werewolves and a dark-haired girl who looked and smelled of shifter magic without the scent notes that said _wolf_. He caught his breath as he recognized a kitsune and dearly wished his nephew were less of an idiot, so they could talk with this pack and hear its story, rather than push it out with claws and teeth. Peter was wildly curious, but Derek was clearly in no mood to do anything except threaten. He shifted to his human form, naked and unselfconscious, his still-transformed pack fanning out to either side. Isaac, also in wolf form, chose that moment to dart out from cover and join his pack mates, lips pulled back to reveal sharp teeth. 

“You’re trespassing on Hale pack land,” Derek snarled. 

Peter, hanging back slightly and shifted into his own burly, grey wolf form, tracked the other pack’s movements. The alpha appeared to be one of the pack’s three male members, a tall man with a shoulder-length fall of blue-black hair and watchful, dark eyes. His betas consisted of a young woman who looked enough like the alpha to be his sister, the kitsune, and two college-age boys with the tense, anticipatory posture of pups who hadn’t been in many fights yet. 

“I am Jiro Kobayashi, alpha of this pack,” the tall man stated, his steady voice carrying easily back to Peter. “We are in Beacon Hills visiting my mother’s cousin, Alpha Satomi Ito. We have not strayed onto Hale pack lands to my knowledge, but we are not here to offend you, Alpha Hale.”

“You can take a message back to Alpha Ito for me, then,” Derek said, smiling unpleasantly. “Beacon Hills is mine. No werewolf can pass my borders without first getting my permission.”

Jiro inclined his head warily. “We will tell Alpha Ito.”

Derek gave a slow nod and Peter froze, unsure if his nephew was going to do something phenomenally, irrevocably stupid. To Peter’s enormous relief, Derek waved dismissively for the other pack to leave. Just as Peter began to relax his muscles, however, Isobel, still in wolf form, moved forward, nipping mockingly at the departing pack’s heels. The female werewolf whirled around and growled at Isobel, fingers sprouting claws and eyes flashing an angry gold. 

Isobel made a sound of satisfaction and sank her claws into the other beta’s leg, high on the thigh and perilously close to her femoral artery. The young woman let out a short yelp of pain and collapsed to the ground. 

Jiro directed a furious look at the Hale pack. 

“She provoked my mate.” Derek spread his hands and raised his eyebrows. “Will you challenge me or run back to Alpha Ito?”

Peter was impressed by Jiro’s self-possession as the other alpha contained his fury and bent to help his wounded beta to her feet once the kitsune had hastily bandaged the wound with her scarf. 

“We will not forget this,” said Jiro coldly. He deliberately turned his back to the Hale pack, then he and his betas walked with stiff, measured steps until they were over a small rise and out of sight. 

Erica eagerly ran up to her alpha, circling him and whining in the direction the Kobayashi pack had taken. Her body language indicated she wanted to chase them out of town, but Derek brushed her off.

“Isaac, keep your distance, but make sure they go straight back to the Ito territory. The rest of you, let’s celebrate with a long run. Full moon tonight. Let’s hunt.” Derek snapped his teeth in a grin and Peter turned his head away. 

He mourned for the cheerfully confident, much-loved child Derek had been. It seemed the fire had left only ruins in its wake; Peter had slaughtered humans and Derek had calcified his heart and Laura…had left Peter alone and vulnerable and in unimaginable pain. 

Peter shook himself all over, following the triumphant howls of his nephew’s unhappy pack. After a while, Isaac caught up with them and Peter stayed long enough to help them hunt before he subtly nudged Erica and Jackson into a vicious scrap on the forest floor. It didn’t take long for it to degenerate into all the betas fighting and posturing, Isobel and Derek watching and exchanging glances like they were betting on the outcome.

Peter melted into the darkening shadows and raced back to the Hale house on swift paws. He’d texted Danny before leaving about the unexpectedly accelerated timeline, and he had texted his local contact, as well. The bracelet was linked to Isobel’s phone, which she hadn’t taken with her in wolf form, but Peter wasn’t sure if she had any backup methods of keeping tabs on its functionality. Once the damn thing was off, they might not have very much time to leave.

He arrived back at the Hale house well after dark. Stiles was awake, sitting in the kitchen with a book when Peter let himself in. Peter was dressed again and ready to go, his pack stowed in the rental car, and impatience building beneath his skin. 

“Peter!” Stiles looked up as Peter came through the door. “I thought that was your heartbeat, but I didn’t hear anyone else. Did something happen?”

“Stiles, this isn’t how I wanted to approach the situation, but I need you to listen to me.” Peter sat down so he wasn’t looming over the other wolf. 

“Um,” Stiles began, frowning. 

“We—my pack and I—have worked out a way to get that bracelet off you without triggering the alarm. Once it’s off, though, we have to move quickly. I-I realize what I’m telling you is undoubtedly high-handed, but you can’t stay here, Stiles. I’ve seen how you’re treated and it’s not right.” Peter paused, seeing anger and hope war on Stiles’ face. “It’s not what Scott or your father would want for you. Let me help you. Let me give you another chance to live your own life.” 

“It’s not that simple, Peter,” Stiles said, despairing. “You don’t know. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“What I do know is that I can’t leave you here. I won’t.” Peter stood and stretched a hand out for Stiles, taking a breath before adding, “And that bracelet is going to be deactivated in five minutes, whether you choose to come with me or not.”

Stiles flushed with what looked like entirely anger this time. “You can’t just make those decisions for me!” he flashed. 

“What do you think Isobel will do when she comes back to find the bracelet off?” Peter played his last card, willing to do whatever it took to remove Stiles from the situation. 

Stiles’ face twisted with indecision and he glared at Peter. 

“You’re forcing my hand and you know it. This is not okay, Peter,” he snapped. 

“I’ll be honest: Just hearing you raise your voice is making me feel pretty good about getting you free,” Peter replied truthfully. “You’re too quiet here, you’re…not _Stiles_.” 

Stiles was silent for a few seconds and Peter checked his phone to see if Danny was close to done. 

“I need to grab a few things if we’re leaving,” Stiles finally said, and Peter let out a sigh of relief. 

“Make it quick,” he returned. 

“I’m so glad you built time into your escape plan for me to pack,” Stiles muttered sarcastically as he disappeared upstairs. 

He didn’t dawdle, though, and just as Danny was texting Peter to confirm that the bracelet was offline, Stiles came back to the kitchen entryway, backpack slung over his shoulder. In his hand he held the bracelet, its seamless circle broken in two. Peter saw that Stiles’ fingers were trembling and he took the bracelet from the boy quickly, tossing it down the disposal and running the water as the sharp blades did their best to shear through industrial-grade metal and electronics. 

“There’s just one more thing,” Stiles said. 

“We don’t have time. I’m sorry if there are things of sentimental value here, but we need to leave.” 

“I said I need one more thing, goddamn it,” Stiles gritted out, ignoring Peter’s efforts to carefully guide him toward the rental car. 

“We need to go!” 

Stiles ignored him, thrusting his backpack at Peter’s chest and running all the way down to the little generator shed. Peter hurried after him, cursing. 

Inside the outbuilding, Stiles furiously dug through a disorganized cluster of gardening tools and cast-off rags before emerging triumphant with a mobile phone. 

“You made us wait for a _phone_?” Peter demanded, taking Stiles’ hand and guiding him firmly outside. 

“I need it,” Stiles panted as they rushed into the car. 

Peter slammed his door and hit the gas, driving as quickly as he could without risking an accident. Or worse, being pulled over. One of the little tidbits Danny had dug up was that the Dufort pack had made inroads in the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department, and Peter didn’t want to find out the hard way that the Dufort deputy was on traffic patrol that night. 

Stiles didn’t speak again for the time it took to reach Peter’s rendezvous point with his contact. Peter found himself unaccountably jittery, all his senses amped up and an unsettling, unfamiliar need to protect the wolf next to him overriding everything else. 

It was uncomfortable, and Peter was devoutly grateful that the werewolf they were meeting was on time. He and Stiles got out of the rental, bags in hand, and into an older-model SUV. The driver turned as they closed their doors, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. 

“Peter Hale and Stiles Stilinski. Never thought I’d see the two of you running away together.”

“Hello, Brett,” Peter replied shortly. “Thanks for picking us up.” 

“No problem, man,” said Brett with a nod. “You okay there, Stiles?”

Stiles gave the other werewolf a blank look and turned to face the window. Peter thanked every outlandish moon-based deity his mother had ever mentioned that Brett didn’t keep after Stiles, but instead let him be. 

“Heard Derek’s pack got into some trouble earlier tonight,” Brett said, turning his attention to Peter. 

“Yes,” Peter said. “It is not atypical idiocy, from what I’ve gathered. I apologize for not being able to do more. I hope the young woman isn’t too badly hurt?”

“When I left, things were under control. Jiro’s pretty pissed, though, I’ll tell you that.” Brett shook his head. “Most of our pack’s pretty pissed, too, honestly. The Kobayashis are awesome, and Derek’s been a real dick since he became the alpha.”

From the backseat, Stiles made a small, wounded noise, and Peter glanced back to see him running his hands through his hair with sharp, agitated movements. 

“They know,” Stiles whispered. “They know I’m gone. I can feel it through the bonds. Derek…Derek’s mad.” 

Peter made a _hmmm_ of sympathy and crawled behind the front seats to join Stiles on the truck’s back bench. He released the seat belt and pulled Stiles into his lap, running his cheek over Stiles’ face and hair and wrapping warm, firm arms around him. He heard Stiles take a deep breath in as he buried his cold nose in the crook of Peter’s shoulder, and the smell seemed to calm him somewhat. Peter settled back against the worn cloth seat and rested his cheek against the softness of Stiles’ hair, watching the streetlights flick by one by one.


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles sat in an overstuffed armchair in Satomi Ito’s living room and bit the edge of his thumbnail nervously. If he thought about Derek or his she-devil mate or his pack he started to lose the ability to breathe, so he didn’t think about them. Or at least, he tried not to think about them. 

Instead, he catalogued the soothing, pale-green walls, the dark wood tables, and the softly upholstered furniture around him. Stiles stared at a loose thread in the pattern of the chair’s fabric and found himself picking at it without meaning to. Peter had disappeared after settling Stiles on the armchair, talking about going over with Satomi the plans to transfer Stiles’ pack bonds and something about following the traditional routes and ranks of command. 

Stiles had nodded vaguely, the bond he had with Derek burning like a red-hot wire in his brain, searing him with Derek’s anger and disapproval. Peter’s embrace in the car had helped dull the unpleasant sensation, but with Peter somewhere else in the house, Stiles was painfully aware of the thread connecting him to his alpha. So. Ignoring. Trying to ignore.

Stiles picked more at the thread and it suddenly pulled free, twisting the pattern on the fabric. Stiles guiltily smoothed his hand over the disfigurement then twined the thread between thin fingers anxiously. None of the room’s other occupants seemed to have noticed his casual property destruction—Brett was playing a game on his phone and the two other betas in the room were reading. 

Wait. Stiles looked closer at one of the betas, inhaling as quietly as he could. She didn’t smell like a wolf…she smelled like…another thing. He wasn’t sure what. Stiles frowned, not realizing he was staring until the not-wolf beta glanced up at him with a small grin. 

“It’s fox,” she said. 

“What?” Stiles asked, jerking back in the chair. “Sorry, I was…I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s fine.” She shrugged. “I said, it’s fox. What I smell like. I’m a kitsune, so I’m like a fox.” 

“Huh.” Stiles blinked and ventured a small smile of his own. “That’s cool. Kitsune…so, like, Japanese trickster spirit?”

“Japanese, yeah,” she replied, smile widening. “I’m still collecting my tails. My name’s Kira. I’m part of the Kobayashi pack.”

“I’m Stiles,” he said. “I’m, uh, between packs, I guess you could say?”

“I heard—” Kira was cut off before she could get any farther by two more werewolves entering the room, one of whom smelled like fresh blood and pain. 

“Mind if we sit by the fire?” the wounded one asked, clutching her leg. 

“Of course not!” Kira relinquished her seat by the fireplace immediately, helping the hurt woman recline against the back of a chair. The other werewolf, who looked enough like the injured girl to be her brother, nodded shortly at Stiles. 

“Satomi tells me you are leaving Derek Hale’s pack,” he said, standing a few feet from Stiles’ chair and fixing him with an expression Stiles found hard to decipher. Not _aggressive_ , necessarily, but not friendly, either. 

“Yeah, I am,” Stiles replied, finding it hard to meet the wolf’s eyes. _Alpha_ , his brain supplied helpfully. 

“You’re the omega Satomi was talking about,” the girl sitting by the fire spoke up. 

Stiles looked down at his lap, feeling a humiliated flush rise in his cheeks. _Here we go_ , he thought bitterly. 

“Yep. That’s me,” he muttered. 

“I’m Ume Kobayashi. That awkwardly hovering dude is my brother and our pack alpha, Jiro. And it looks like you met Kira,” the girl said, her voice cheerful and casual. 

Stiles blinked, slowly raising his gaze to meet her open, dark-eyed regard. 

“It’s…it’s nice to meet you?” he ventured, cautious. 

The alpha, Jiro, moved to sit next to Ume on the floor. 

“Sorry we’re being so rude and informal,” Ume continued. “Usually Jiro is a stickler for observing the correct forms of respectful address, etcetera, etcetera, but, as you can see, we got into something of a…disagreement with your pack earlier today.”

“Not my pack,” Stiles replied instantly, shocking himself at how rapid and heartfelt his rejection of the Hale pack was. “Well, I’m still working on…uh, separating, at least.” He paused. “And I didn’t know you got hurt by Derek. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, dude,” said Ume, wincing as she shifted her weight. Jiro instantly supported her, helping her move into a more comfortable position. Kira scooted closer, taking most of Ume’s weight against her side. There was a short silence, which Stiles filled with watching the way the firelight glanced off a set of porcelain vases on the side table and Jiro spent frowning in Stiles’ direction. 

Ume broke the quiet with a suppressed gasp of pain, her palms pressing down on her thigh. 

“I’ll be okay,” she assured her brother, waving him off. “It’s just taking a long time to heal, that’s all.”

“I will remember this,” Jiro swore, glaring at the wound in Ume’s leg like he could fix it through willpower alone. 

“Yeah, I’m not going to forget any time soon, either.” Ume gave a short laugh. 

Stiles tilted his head in curiosity. 

“Um,” he began, hesitant. “Why, uh, why is it taking so long to heal? You’re a beta, right? Isn’t your body, like, usually already back to normal by now?”

“If that bitch hadn’t tipped her claws in wolfsbane, yeah, it would be fine,” Kira said, her face hard. 

“Oh. Is that—did _Isobel_ hurt you?” Stiles asked. 

“Alpha Hale’s mate,” Jiro confirmed, tight-lipped. 

“I’m sorry that happened,” Stiles murmured. If he tried, he could detect the acrid scent of wolfsbane, despite the fact that the injury had been cleaned out already. Moved by an instinct he didn’t understand, Stiles slipped from his chair and made his way over to the trio by the fire. 

Jiro tensed as Stiles drew closer, but didn’t stop him. Kira watched Stiles with curiosity but no hostility and Ume welcomed him with a little hum. 

Stiles settled on the carpet by Ume, putting trembling, tentative fingers near the source of her pain. His eyes closed and he frowned a little, feeling himself sink into a space in his head where everything was quiet and bright. Loose-limbed and relaxed, Stiles opened his eyes again and brushed a hand against Ume’s shoulder, pausing there for a minute to share the sensation of easy bliss. 

He saw her lashes flutter and the tension in her forehead ease. 

“It feels—better,” she said, leaning more heavily into Kira with relief. 

Stiles grinned, feeling as though his body was unfurling like a blooming flower, letting delight spill out as he opened. He knew in some part of his mind that he wasn’t sitting up on his own anymore, but it took several minutes before it registered that the thing he was supported by was Alpha Jiro Kobayashi, not a chair. 

“Uh, sorry,” Stiles got out after a few tries. He was a little dizzy. 

“I’ve read about this,” Jiro said, but that didn’t make any sense to Stiles.

“You’ve read about…?” 

“The _analeptikos_. The gift of the omega,” Jiro said, reducing Stiles’ incomprehension not at all. 

“Uh,” he said again. 

“It means…restoration. Restorative,” Jiro explained patiently, making no move to dislodge Stiles from resting against his shoulder. “It’s something the werewolf omegas could do, a long time ago. It’s part of what made them so valuable. You can…encourage healing. Calm other pack members. Soothe, conciliate.”

“Huh.” Stiles wasn’t up to moving yet. “So I’m, like, werewolf Xanax?” 

Kira burst out laughing. 

“It’s like having super pheromones, kinda,” Ume chimed in. “Like how alphas can encourage compliance, omegas can make us happy.”

“What do betas do?” Stiles wondered.

“Look hot, obviously,” Ume smirked, batting her eyelashes at him. Kira poked her in the side and Ume giggled. 

“Didn’t you do the zen thing for Derek’s pack?” Kira asked. 

Stiles shuddered, thinking of the endless chores and sharp slaps and sly pinches and the unrelenting belittlement. 

“No,” he said. 

“Sucks for them,” Ume declared, giving Stiles’ arm a gentle squeeze. “But not for me. You’re amazing, for real. I feel massively improved already.” 

She peeled back the material of her sleep shorts and Stiles saw a set of sharp red lines, although the skin was whole. 

“Wow,” Kira enthused, giving Stiles a wide-eyed look. As they watched, the lines faded and healed at a more typical beta regeneration rate. 

Ume ran her fingertips over her leg then turned to pull Stiles into a quick, hard hug. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“I won’t forget this, either,” Jiro said, and Stiles felt a large hand ruffle his hair briefly. 

He couldn’t stop himself from sinking back against Jiro’s arm, letting Ume and Kira press close to him on either side. Their pack’s smells, although not _his_ , were harmoniously intertwined, and it soothed him. 

_This is a functional pack_ , he thought. _This is what Derek’s pack should have smelled like._

“Ah, Stiles, I see you’ve met most of the Kobayashi pack,” Peter drawled from the doorway. 

Stiles looked up to see his…alpha?…taking the scene in with an amused, fond expression. There wasn’t a hint of disapproval to be seen, and Stiles sagged in relief. Not that Peter had been scarily possessive so far, just…it was hard for Stiles to take independent action and not expect to be reprimanded. 

“He’s joining your pack, Peter?” Kira asked. 

“If that’s what you want, Stiles,” Peter said, meeting Stiles’ eyes gravely. “I am afraid he has to be part of _a_ pack, and soon, due to his wolf’s nature…but I’m not forcing anyone to join me.”

“Yeah, right,” Stiles muttered, annoyed. “That’s what you meant when you told me you’d break that bracelet regardless of what I said. That was you _not forcing_ me.”

Peter sighed. 

“Fair,” he conceded. 

“Are you being coerced, Stiles?” Jiro asked, pulling back so he could look at Stiles’ face directly. 

It was Stiles’ turn to sigh, and he did so with sincerity. 

“Given my choices, I’d pick Peter over anyone else,” he answered after a few minutes. 

“I will work something out with Satomi if necessary,” Jiro said, his face serious and his dark eyes steady. “You have options. Any alpha would be _honored_ …proud to have an omega, especially one who is compassionate enough to achieve the _analeptikos_.” 

“Look, I get that my werewolf omega mojo is good for healing open wounds, or whatever—”

“No,” Jiro broke in, making a frustrated motion with his free hand. “To be able to use _analeptikos_ on a pack that’s not even your own…that’s the mark of someone exceptionally strong and centered. To withhold it from your old pack, to rein in your instincts like that…also very powerful.” Jiro’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “To hear you talk, Stiles…it’s like you think you’re weak somehow, or…or, I don’t know…not worth what you should be.”

“Stiles was part of Derek’s pack when he turned,” Peter interjected softly. “And shortly after that, Isobel Dufort joined the group. I believe her views are somewhat, shall we say, _distorted_ regarding pack dynamics.”

Jiro’s face darkened with anger and Stiles started to edge back from him, making the alpha stare at him in frank astonishment. 

“Are you afraid of me?” Jiro asked. 

“Well….” Stiles shrugged, not moving back. “You smell kind of mad?”

“Not at you,” Jiro assured him. 

“Sometimes that doesn’t matter,” Stiles mumbled. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jiro said firmly. “And I was serious earlier: Is Peter pressuring you to join his pack? I will help you find another way to bond with a pack if you don’t want Peter. You won’t suffer as _eremos_.” 

“Peter’s okay,” Stiles said, more loudly this time. “Peter’s…good. I’m okay with Peter. Thanks, though.” He looked at Jiro and gave him a slight smile. “I promise.” He turned his gaze up to Peter. “Even if he is a high-handed asshole sometimes.” 

“Guilty,” Peter said with a wry smile of his own. “And willing to earn your forgiveness.”

“I accept payment in the form of video games, curly fries, and the blood of my enemies,” Stiles replied. 

“I think I can work with that.” Peter’s smile turned feral. “Just give me a little time.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Briefly edited because I forgot Oregon is a state where they pump the gas for you, whoops.

Peter, for all that he came off as arrogant and self-focused, could be unexpectedly and deeply thoughtful. He directed Stiles that night to a guest room that smelled of nothing but a trace of lavender and clean sheets. If the room was used regularly, there was no olfactory indication, which relaxed Stiles on a level he hadn’t known was tense. Peter slept in the room to Stiles’ right and Ume and Kira shared the room to his left. Stiles was given space but also protected by people who seemed to care about him. 

He woke early in the morning, a foreign sensation of refreshment making every breath lighter. He brushed his teeth and even fussed a little with his hair after a hot shower, wondering how he could style it, now it had grown out. The last time he’d been even remotely invested in his appearance, he’d had a buzz cut. In the end, Stiles settled on pushing it out of his face. He still didn’t like to look in mirrors. 

The boy in the mirror was delicate and small and _worthless_ at protecting himself. He turned away from his reflection, tugging at his hair unhappily. Derek’s bond pulled at him, and Stiles imagined it as a tether, vibrating with the force of Derek’s anger and jerking Stiles back to the Hale house of nightmares. 

Stiles forced his breathing even and heard someone knocking on the bedroom door. It was Peter; Stiles recognized the heartbeat and, very faintly, took in the comforting smell of fresh pine and warm amber and _alpha_. He opened the door quickly, suddenly wanting nothing as much as he wanted Peter’s arms around him, soothing away the harshness of the Hale pack bonds. 

Peter took no convincing, and as soon as Stiles appeared, he was pressed to Peter’s chest, inhaling deeply and letting his body go limp. Peter supported him, making a low, wordless kind of rumbling in his chest that had a nearly soporific effect on Stiles. 

When Stiles blinked his eyes open long moments later, he found the strength of his bonds to Derek’s betas far less noticeable. Stiles rubbed his cheek against the feather-soft cashmere of Peter’s sweater and sighed. 

“My betas are here,” Peter told him, strong fingers running slowly over the length of Stiles’ back in a steady rhythm. 

“Mmm,” Stiles replied. 

“We need to get on the road,” Peter continued, voice vibrating against Stiles’ ear and making him smile a little. “We aren’t doing anything that violates pack law, but I’d rather put some distance between your old pack and your new pack while we work on transferring the bonds.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, reluctantly supporting his own weight again. “My bag is ready.”

“Good.”

Peter led him down the hall and out to the driveway, where a lithely muscled woman with long, dark hair stood next to a black SUV. Behind her was a young-looking man with a hesitant smile and next to him….

Stiles stopped moving, then reached over to grip Peter’s hand.

“Is that…is he…?” Stiles let go of Peter and took a few steps toward the beta werewolf who looked a lot like Danny Māhealani. 

“Stiles!” Danny closed the distance between them easily and swept Stiles into a fierce hug. 

Stiles wrapped his own arms around his former classmate, burying his nose in the space beneath Danny’s jaw and trying to get as close as he could. It was not the kind of greeting Stiles would have imagined a year ago, when Danny had been the unapproachably hot and popular best friend of jerk face Jackson Whittemore, but now, it was indescribably comforting to see a familiar person smiling at him and smelling a bit like Peter, like _pack._

“Danny is responsible for breaking that tracker Isobel put on you,” Peter said, appearing next to them with Stiles’ bag in hand. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, looking up at Danny’s face with a broad grin. 

“Anytime,” Danny replied, taking Stiles’ bag from Peter and tossing it in the back of the vehicle. 

“This is Braeden and this is Ethan, my other two betas,” said Peter, gesturing first at the dark-haired woman and then at the young man. 

“Ethan’s my boyfriend,” Danny added, curling an arm around Ethan’s shoulders. “We were kind of a package deal for Peter.” 

“Heading out?” Stiles heard someone ask from behind them. 

He turned to see Jiro, Ume, and Kira, as well as two betas, standing next to Satomi and Brett. 

“Thank you, Alpha Ito,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry—”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Satomi assured him, her eyes kind. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“It was an honor,” Jiro said, holding out his hand to shake. Stiles took it, part of him dazed that an alpha would deign to treat him like an equal. “You have my number. Don’t hesitate to contact me. For anything.” 

His expression was stern, but the hand he put on Stiles’ shoulder was gentle. 

“Keep in touch!” Ume directed, pulling Stiles into a friendly embrace. Kira hugged him from behind before tugging playfully at his hair. 

“We all want to hear from you, Stiles,” she said, then waved her hand at the two betas still on the porch. “That’s the rest of our pack, Justin and David, and I texted you their info, too. I’m serious. We want updates.”

“And if you need anything,” Ume said, face briefly serious. 

“Thanks,” Stiles got out, blinking hard to stop the rush of tears. 

“Alpha Hale,” Jiro inclined his head toward Peter. 

“Alpha Kobayashi,” Peter returned the gesture, then nodded at Satomi, too. “Alpha Ito, always a pleasure.”

“Travel safe!” Ume waved, twining her other hand with Kira’s, both of them smiling. 

Stiles let himself be guided by Peter into the back of the SUV, Braeden settling in to drive and Ethan taking the front passenger’s seat. Peter sat to one side of Stiles and Danny hopped into the seat on Stiles’ other side. 

“Where we going?” Stiles finally thought to ask. 

“Home,” Peter answered, putting an arm around Stiles and encouraging him to rest his head against Peter’s shoulder. Danny leaned in from the other side, letting Stiles take in his scent as he ran long fingers through Stiles’ hair. 

“Feels good,” Stiles murmured, leaning into the touch. 

Danny hummed a little and kept going, while Peter kept one arm around Stiles’ shoulders and used the other to take Stiles’ hand, tracing small circles on his palm. Every breath Stiles took was saturated with Peter and Danny, and he was warm all the way through from the heat of their bodies. 

Although he could still feel Derek’s presence in his mind, the bonds he’d had for months with Jackson, Erica, and Boyd were fading fast, and the malignant sense of Isobel was nearly gone. Stiles had always tried to push her away, keeping up resistance to her hold even when it pained him. He was finally rewarded for the effort by the ease with which he could dissolve their bond. 

“You’re doing so well,” Peter said, voice deep and sincere. “I think the bonding process will be even faster than I’d anticipated.” 

“Always ahead of the curve,” Danny said, and he sounded like he was smiling. 

Stiles basked in their approval, and he wasn’t sure how much time passed before they pulled over to refuel. 

“Where are we?” he asked, sitting up when Braeden turned off the truck at a gas pump. 

“Inland Oregon,” Peter replied. “We’re taking a detour around the Medford area…better not to tempt trouble.”

Stiles, remembering where the Dufort lands lay, nodded. 

“Want anything from inside?” Ethan asked them. 

Danny asked for iced tea, Peter handed over some cash, and Stiles shook his head. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Peter asked. “You didn’t have breakfast.”

“Not really,” said Stiles, looking down. 

“Hm,” Peter replied. “I’d like some fruit if you see any,” he told Ethan. 

Braeden paid for the gas and Ethan reappeared after a few minutes with his purchases. Before they pulled away, Braeden turned back to grasp Stiles’ hand and rub her cheek against it. 

“I’m really glad you’re with us,” she said, and Stiles felt a little glow. 

Ethan tossed Peter a plastic cup of grapes and sliced apples and winked at Stiles, then turned back around when Braeden merged onto the highway. 

Peter settled Stiles back close to him and Danny took a drink of his tea, letting his leg rest against Stiles’ in an easy sprawl. Peter cracked open a bottle of water and took a sip. 

“Thirsty?” he asked Stiles. 

Stiles shrugged. “I guess? Not, like, _really_ thirsty, though.”

Peter brought the bottle to Stiles’ lips and made a questioning noise. Stiles hesitated, but there was something so natural about an alpha providing sustenance that Stiles instinctively opened his mouth instead of protesting. Peter carefully tipped the water bottle, letting a small stream of liquid flow out. It was cool and exactly what Stiles’ body wanted. He swallowed gratefully. 

“Thanks…I guess I didn’t realize how much I needed that,” he told Peter. The alpha made an amused noise and chose a red grape from the cup, bringing it to Stiles’ mouth, telegraphing his movements enough for Stiles to stop him if that was what he wanted.

Instead, Stiles parted his lips again, allowing Peter to slip the smooth, sweet grape between his teeth. Stiles chewed thoroughly, savoring the flavor and feeling as though he could actually taste again after what felt like months of eating sawdust. 

“Good boy,” Peter said, pleased. Stiles thought he ought to find the phrase pejorative, but instead it gave him the same warm feeling as being in Peter’s arms. He obediently let Peter feed him most of the fruit cup, every word of praise from the alpha drawing him deeper into contentment. 

“You smell so good, Stiles,” Danny sighed.

“Super good,” Ethan confirmed. 

Stiles snuggled into Peter and made a sleepy sound, his stomach full and his muscles relaxed. 

“Go ahead and take a nap if you want,” Braeden said to Stiles. “We’ve got you.”

Her words reassured him, but the smell of the truck’s interior was what truly allowed him to sink into a light sleep—it was predominantly Peter, but also the earthy-smokiness of Danny and the growing-green of Braeden and the fresh-rain of Ethan, separate streams that flowed together to create something unified and deeply comforting. 

When Stiles woke up, it was for another refueling stop. He dozily made a bathroom trip, then let Peter feed him more water and bits of a roast-beef sandwich before falling unresisting into a semi-conscious doze. He didn’t feel like talking—everything that had happened over the last few months combined with the knowledge that he was starting all over again exhausted him, and he just wanted to exist without any demands placed on him, safe in the scent of a pack. 

Peter and his betas seemed content to let Stiles drift in his own thoughts, only ensuring he was comfortable as they drove. The sun had set several hours prior when Braeden parked the truck and Stiles blinked his eyes fully open. 

“Are we there?” he asked, rubbing at his face. 

“We’re stopping in Seattle for the night,” Peter replied. “We’ll do the last few hours of the trip tomorrow. We need to stock up on some supplies and I think everyone could do with some sleep first.”

Stiles piled out of the car with the rest of the pack; Peter took the lead, Ethan and Danny flanked Stiles, and Braeden walked behind him, keeping Stiles surrounded without pressing too close. Stiles was taken aback by the intimidatingly posh lobby of the hotel, and he realized there was already an attendant following with their luggage on a cart. 

Peter checked in and before Stiles had time to do more than stare up at the abstract, glittering light fixtures, their group was moving to the elevator. Braeden made polite smalltalk with the hotel employee handling their luggage on the way up, then they were walking through a set of double doors and Stiles found himself in a spacious, multi-room suite that showed a dazzling view of downtown through a series of large picture windows. 

He crossed to peer down at the bright city lights, eyes following the twinkling, spinning circle of a giant ferris wheel on the water, many stories down. 

“Would you prefer to sleep alone tonight?” Peter asked at Stiles’ shoulder. 

Stiles tore his gaze away from the night scape and looked up at the alpha, thoughtful. After a few minutes he shook his head. 

“No. I want to be with the pack,” he answered. 

Peter made a pleased noise, leaving Stiles to get ready for bed in his own time. Stiles took a long shower, washing more slowly than he had since he’d been turned, trying for the first time to learn his body instead of just get it clean as quickly as possible. He brought his toothbrush into the stall with him and let the minty toothpaste foam tingle across his lips before washing it away. 

After slipping on a t-shirt and sweatpants, he padded out to the larger of the two bedrooms, where Peter lounged on the bed reading a tablet and Braeden sat in a chair by the window, pieces of some kind of modified firearm spread out on the table in front of her. 

Stiles perched on the bed and watched with interest as Braeden reassembled the gun, her movements practiced and meticulous. 

“You know how to shoot?” she asked Stiles, not taking her eyes off her task. 

“Yeah,” he said, nodding a little. “Cop’s kid. Dad made sure I knew enough not to hurt myself or anyone else by accident…I practiced some on my own, too.”

“Good,” said Braeden, finishing up and smiling back at him. “Never hurts to have more than one way to defend yourself. If you want to get back into shape with it, you’re welcome to train with me.” 

“Really?” Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t—I mean, I thought werewolves like me were supposed to, you know, stay at home…or in the den or whatever…and let the strong pack members do the fighting.” 

Peter gaped at him and Braeden snorted. 

“We look out for each other, sure, but if you want to learn how to fight, there’s no reason you shouldn’t,” she said with a level glance. “When I was human, there were lots of idiots who told me I shouldn’t bother to go into law enforcement. I was too young, too pretty, too girly, whatever…you need to know your limits, but the only way to do that is to figure out where they are, not assume you can’t do something.” 

Stiles looked over at Peter to see what the alpha thought of that, and found an expression of frustrated anger on his face. It made Stiles tense, then relax as Peter evened out his face and gave Stiles a reassuring smile. 

“Part of being an omega means you aren’t naturally as strong as an alpha or a beta. But that has nothing to do with your place in any pack. Granted, my knowledge is all theoretical, but from what I’ve read—and I’ve read a lot—omega wolves are very fast, with sharper claws and teeth. Some of them could even affect other wolves’ emotions in the middle of a fight. Maybe you’ll never have the brute strength to lift a car or win an arm-wrestling contest with an alpha. So what?” 

Peter frowned, thinking for a minute before continuing. 

“It’s…there are parts of pack structure and dynamics that are instinctive and hard-wired into us. The alpha will always want to lead. The good ones know how to listen and how to delegate and when to step back. The omega werewolves…I’m not sure how Alan explained this all to you. Your role is as the alpha’s counterpart in many ways. You keep the pack together, help resolve infighting, tell the alpha when there are burgeoning pack-relations problems. In the old days, omegas always took part in treaty discussions. 

“And the alpha and omega typically had a relationship unique in the greater pack. It could be…sexual, but that wasn’t a necessary component.”

Stiles felt the heat from his blush like the worst-ever case of sunburn. He knew even the tips of his ears had to be scarlet. 

“Oh,” he squeaked, picking at the coverlet on the bed.

“At its most simplistic level, it means that omegas like to please their alphas and alphas like to take care of their omegas. Of course there are many more layers you can add to that, and every relationship evolves, but those are the instincts we both have. It does _not_ mean, however, that it’s your job as an omega to cook, clean, and slave away with no rights.” Peter’s voice was firm. “How _did_ Alan relay this information to you and Derek?” 

“Um….” Stiles trailed off, biting his lip and wanting to sink into the carpet and far, far away from the discussion. “He mentioned the peace-maker vibe, too. And…uh…he talked about how omegas’ bodies were, um, like… _accommodating during_ …sex. Basically. That was most of his explanation. Honestly, it’s a blur. Scott…and my dad…I know Dr. Deaton talked about emotional bonds. But then Isobel and Alpha Dufort filled in a lot of the…gaps, I guess. They-they had this book, this journal, from one of the earlier Dufort alphas, and it told them all about the way omegas should be treated and what their duties were.” 

Stiles stared at the mangled threads he’d yanked from the bed-covering guiltily, then realized something wet was splashing on his knuckles and lifted a hand to his face to find he’d started crying at some point. 

“Well, shit,” he heard Braeden say from somewhere nearby, but he was suddenly sobbing harder, and all he really registered was curling into a Peter-smelling shape in the front and having a pack-smelling shape wrap around him from behind. 

Stiles knew intellectually that he shouldn’t find their tight holds so appealing, but he did. It grounded him and helped him rein in the tears, until he was just sniffling into Peter’s shoulder and all three of them were lying pressed together on the bed. 

“S-s-sorry,” Stiles said and both of the other werewolves tightened their grip on him, letting him know he wasn’t alone. 

“You are definitely not the one who should be apologizing for anything,” Braeden whispered fiercely. 

Peter made the deep rumbling sound that Stiles found inexplicably and immeasurably soothing. Braeden dipped her head to nuzzle briefly against the back of Stiles’ neck and it made him melt into her with a sigh. He’d been skittish about the spot ever since Derek had taken advantage of his reaction, but Braeden’s touch felt natural and good. 

“You’ve had a rough time of it, hm,” Peter murmured, rubbing his cheek against the top of Stiles’ head. Stiles bared his throat and Peter accepted the invitation, wordlessly running his nose and mouth over the sensitive stretch of pale skin. 

Stiles shivered, feeling alternately warm and cool. Braeden was a long, taut line against his back and Peter a broad, muscled presence to his front. He let his body go pliant and loose, head sinking into the downy softness of a pillow. 

“‘M tired,” he told them. “Don’t want to talk anymore.” 

“That’s fine,” Peter soothed. 

“Don’t let go,” Stiles gasped when Braeden shifted. 

“Not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Braeden reassured him. “Just getting the blanket over us.”

“You guys’re warm,” Stiles breathed.

“There we go,” Braeden said, and Stiles felt a light and fluffy weight settle on top of him. Braeden gave him a little squeeze when she snuggled close again and Stiles hummed as he fell back into sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Danny and Ethan were bright-eyed and excitable the next morning, and Stiles could tell they’d enjoyed having their own bedroom the night before. He wasn’t sure what he smelled like, but Danny gave him a sympathetic face and a brief hug and Ethan ran a friendly hand down his back. 

“Room service?” Ethan suggested. 

“It’s too late in the morning,” Braeden replied briskly, tapping away at her phone. “At this point it will be quicker to just go out. Besides, we have some shopping ahead of us before we can get back on the road.”

“I saw a game store—” Ethan began before Braeden cut him off. 

“You and Danny will stock up on groceries, I will make nice with my contacts to get information about the situation back in California, and Peter will take Stiles for the essentials,” she directed. 

“Fine,” Ethan muttered, flicking a balled-up piece of paper at Danny’s head. “I want cosmic brownies, though. And bánh mì for lunch. Or fish and chips. From the place by the beach.”

“We’re not here all day,” Danny pointed out as he followed Ethan through the suite to the pack’s pile of luggage. Braeden tossed the truck keys in their direction and Danny caught them neatly, tucking them in his pocket before grabbing half the bags. Ethan took the other half, and they were still bickering genially as they left. 

Braeden directed a shooing motion at Peter and Stiles and indicated a complicated-looking list on her phone’s screen. 

“I’ll meet up with you two downtown when I’m done and we’ll have the boys pick us up,” she informed them, and in short order Stiles was standing outside the closed door to their suite, Peter at his side. 

“Shall we?” Peter offered his arm with a gentlemanly flourish and Stiles felt something settle in his stomach at the light-hearted gesture. He took Peter’s arm and matched the alpha’s stride to the elevator bank. 

As they rode down, Stiles noticed Peter staring hard at his feet. 

“What?” 

“Those shoes appear to be too large,” Peter observed with a frown. 

“Oh, yeah…uh, probably because they didn’t start off as mine.”

“I realize we were in a bit of a rush to get out of Derek’s house, but surely you had time to get your own footwear?”

The elevator stopped and let them out to the lobby.

“Yeah…about that….” Stiles averted his face as they walked outside and felt that horrible flush again. “So remember how I told you I had the, uh, the _episode_ last year? And one of the things Isobel thought would…well, she said it would help….” Stiles took a breath and made himself remember that he was away from her, that she wasn’t going to be part of his pack ever again. “Well, you’re not stupid, Peter. She didn’t want me to leave. I…I guess I never let myself admit how bad it was because…because it was humiliating and she was _right_ , I am weaker and-and like you said last night, omegas are wired to serve—” 

Stiles clenched his fists and took a few breaths. “Anyway. She took my shoes. It was part of her plan to keep me at the house all the time. I couldn’t leave even _with_ shoes, so it seemed kind of pointlessly sadistic, but whatever, I guess that’s Isobel. I, uh, I stole this old pair of Jackson’s one day and hid them, just in case I ever…needed them. He didn’t notice.” 

“Stiles.” Peter paused and moved them out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, then waited until Stiles looked him in the eye to continue. “We’re going to keep talking about this, because I don’t think you’ve got the entire picture yet, but that’s a discussion better held once we get to the pack lands and have some time to bond with the betas and show you what I’m trying to convey. One thing I will say before we go any further: Wanting to please other people because you care about their well-being and comfort has _nothing_ to do with being forced to serve.”

“Um, thanks, I guess,” Stiles said. He didn’t _not_ believe Peter, but all Derek’s faults aside, he wasn’t a bad person, and he had never disagreed with anything Isobel had said or done regarding pack hierarchy. Maybe Peter’s interpretation of an omega’s role varied slightly, but so far Stiles had seen nothing that suggested being an omega wolf was anything but the worst possible way to turn. “Wait, did you say _pack lands?_ I thought Derek said your pack wasn’t—didn’t have anywhere to go. I guess there was a more tactful way to say that, sorry.” 

“There are several reasons I haven’t advertised my pack’s accomplishments,” Peter replied, unruffled by any potential offense. “But as you are joining the pack, I have no qualms in letting you know that we have settled at least part time on a stretch of land in Canada. The closest city is Vancouver, so if you’ve any fondness for Cantonese food, I can take you to several places that will transport you to dim sum paradise.”

Stiles greeted the change in topic with relief and nodded a bit too vigorously, making Peter smile fondly at him and tug him into a loose embrace. 

“Lo mai gai is the best,” Stiles said, leaning into Peter’s hold. 

“How do you feel about clam chowder for breakfast?” Peter asked as they neared a bustling marketplace by the water. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had really good clam chowder,” said Stiles. 

“Well, let’s rectify that.” 

They ate thick, creamy chowder with salty crackers, washing it down with locally roasted coffee. Stiles was feeling pleasantly sated as Peter directed him into a clothing store. 

“What looks good?” Peter asked and Stiles stared at the racks upon racks of clothes. Even before he had given up on wanting to look good, Stiles hadn’t been much of a sartorial enthusiast. His purchases had tended toward novelty t-shirts, retro sneakers, and layers of plaid shirts and hoodies. Once he’d been turned he had mostly wanted to cover up…and then Isobel had come….

“Nothing black,” Stiles said eventually. 

Peter glanced at Stiles’ black sweater and black pants and nodded. He unobtrusively helped Stiles fill a dressing room with nearly every style of dress the store carried. Stiles was seized by an unexpected determination to control this one aspect of his life. He was never going to be the Stiles Stilinski of his human days, but neither was he the Hale pack omega anymore. He’d be damned if he dressed like either one. 

For the first time in his life, Stiles took careful stock of how each article of clothing fit him, modeling every piece for Peter, who, with gratifying seriousness, continued to give his opinion without any sign of fatigue.

When a sales person brought Stiles a black sweater to try on, he nearly snapped at her. 

“I just thought…it’s cashmere,” she tried. 

“Maybe a different color,” Peter suggested with a polite smile. Stiles felt a wave of tiredness crash down on him and he sagged against the fitting-room door. Peter came over to wrap him up in another one of his firm hugs and Stiles could breathe again. He straightened up, ready to continue and only registered Peter’s soft question several minutes after it had been voiced. 

_Why not black?_ Peter had asked. 

Stiles fiddled with a button on the shirt he was trying on, but told himself there was nothing to be ashamed of in telling Peter the truth. 

“Once Isobel moved in,” Stiles said slowly, “she changed all this stuff about the house. She replaced most of the furniture and decorated all the rooms and got everything to be the way she wanted it. She was so particular about everything around her, everything that…belonged to the pack. I was—after I turned, it was…difficult to see the way my body was different. None of my old clothes fit, and I didn’t want to see the way I had changed all the time, so I just wore…whatever. Used clothes. Big clothes. Isobel didn’t like it. She said…she said if I couldn’t be bothered to dress myself properly, she’d do it for me. She bought five black shirts, three black sweaters, five pairs of black pants.” Stiles glanced down at the bright blue shirt he was crumpling and smoothed his hands over the wrinkled material. “The weird thing is, I could tell that if Derek had wanted to pick out my clothes as some kind of…as a way to show he…cared about me…I would have really liked it.”

Peter looked like he was counting in his head to keep from making a scene. 

“She subverted all your instincts,” he growled lowly. “No wonder you don’t trust yourself.”

“I do…I mean, I want to believe I’m still me. It’s just hard sometimes.” Stiles rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m not going to break down in a fitting room. Just…no black, okay?”

“No black,” Peter repeated. “Let’s hit a shoe store next.”

\- X -

Peter didn’t think he would ever tire of seeing his pack house, and he had felt that way from the second he’d found it. The old house was set well back from the road, in a heavily wooded area still close enough to the water to hear waves against the shore. In an abundance of caution bred from bitter experience—would Kate Argent’s arson have succeeded if Talia had been more tightly networked with the packs less than ten miles away?—Peter had wasted no time in reaching out to the alphas of the two other packs that claimed land nearby, in addition to their emissaries and historians. 

Although he hadn’t approached the point where he would call either of the other packs’ alphas for a night of convivial drinking, Peter figured their relationships were fairly solid, since both packs had sent several betas, three of whom worked in construction, to help Peter and his pack remodel their home.

It was a good sign, especially since Peter knew his pack wasn’t conventional. They didn’t spend all their time tied to their pack grounds the way most werewolves did. It meant Peter’s connection with the land would never be as strong as his Hale alpha forbears, but it also meant their internal pack bonding was both more intense and more important than it had been to the Hale packs of years past. 

Still, the place to lay down new bonds and solidify old ones was inarguably the pack house on the pack land, and Peter took a great deal of enjoyment from the look of appreciation on Stiles’ face when he saw the place. 

“It’s so welcoming,” the omega murmured as Peter led him up the front steps and through the heavy front door. The house was rambling and comfortable, with space for the existing pack members and room to expand their number if they chose. The betas peeled off during Stiles’ tour, going to check on their own private rooms and start to unpack. Peter stayed at Stiles’ side until he had seen every room in the house and tentatively claimed one of the bedrooms where the sound of the waves was the clearest. 

“You can make it whatever you want,” Peter told him, watching from the doorway as Stiles set his bag down and brushed his fingers over the plain but solidly built furniture. “Bedroom, office, media room, meditation space. It doesn’t matter. You can sleep here any time you want or all the time if you prefer. We each have a room just for ourselves. Braeden uses hers for time alone, but Danny and Ethan have made one into a bedroom they share and the other into a game and television room.”

“Could I paint the walls?” Stiles asked. 

“Of course,” Peter replied. “We’ll help you change anything you’d like.” 

Stiles nodded, glancing around. 

“Thanks,” he said. 

“You’re pack,” Peter responded. 

“Working on it.” Stiles smiled at him and moved closer. “The bonds with Derek’s betas are nearly done. I can still feel him, but it’s better than even a day ago.”

“We’ll hunt together soon, and do a full-moon run,” Peter said. “But Satomi and I both agree that the most important thing you can do is spend time both physically and emotionally engaging with your new pack.” Peter drew Stiles forward into the hallway. “And on that note, I think we’re close to dinner. We’ll eat in the den.”

They returned to the cozy back room, where Braeden had started a fire in the stone hearth and the lights were dimmed. Peter joined her on one of the low-slung couches then watched Stiles make his way across the carpet, his bare feet sinking into the thick pile. Instead of joining them on the sofa, Stiles sank to the floor, leaning back into the space between Peter’s legs. 

Stiles seemed to find contentment with his head resting against Peter’s knee, so Peter carded his fingers through Stiles’ dark hair, scratching occasionally at his scalp and feeling the self-satisfaction of an alpha whose omega smelled like sweetness and relaxation. 

Peter was shamelessly taking in deep breaths of Stiles’ clover and honey scent when Danny and Ethan appeared with dinner. Ethan had taken to cooking in the months they had spent together as a pack. He’d been limited in what he could make in their rentals, but over the little time they had spent in the pack house, Ethan had turned out to be both competent and adventurous in the kitchen. He’d taken over making all the group meals, and in exchange, the rest of the pack agreed to eat whatever he was interested in learning to prepare. 

In the interest of simplicity, Ethan had put together a colorful array of finger foods on several serving plates, which he and Danny set down on the low coffee table.

Braeden and Peter complimented Ethan on his work, but Stiles clenched and unclenched his fingers in the fabric of Peter’s trousers and remained silent. Peter, who had been rubbing circles on Stiles’ shoulders, paused his movements and tipped Stiles’ chin up so they could make eye contact. 

“All right?” Peter asked. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said. “I’m not—I didn’t even think to—”

“Is this about dinner?” Peter asked, remembering Stiles in the Hale kitchen making every meal. “Ethan volunteered to do dinner. We are capable of feeding ourselves, I promise. He just likes to cook.”

“Yeah, it’s fun for me. I get to try out any new recipe I want and these guys are my test audience,” Ethan was putting out an anxious, confused scent as he tried to catch Stiles’ gaze. “Is it…is there something you don’t like?”

“No! No, it’s not that—” Stiles shook his head free of Peter’s grasp and made a frustrated gesture. “Feeding the pack is my job. I don’t understand—”

“Stiles.” Danny’s voice was calm and he moved closer, kneeling so he was closer to Stiles’ level. “Peter told us a little about what Derek’s pack was like, and I swear to you that is not what we are doing here. We all have our talents and responsibilities, but it’s like it would be in any family. We work together, and we take care of each other. Ethan likes to cook, so a lot of times he cooks. Peter hates to wash dishes, so a lot of times we make him wash dishes.” 

Stiles made a surprised, choked-off laugh at that and glanced up at Peter, curious. 

“It’s true, I’m afraid,” Peter sighed. 

“Do you even like to cook?” Braeden asked Stiles. He shrugged. 

“I don’t _hate_ it,” he ventured. “I used to like making healthy stuff for my dad, but that was more like…I wanted to take care of him. Not like I just loved making salads so much I wanted to do it all the time.” He paused. “But…I can. Cook, you know. I’m, uh, actually pretty good at it now.”

“But do you _want_ to?” Braeden persisted. 

“Well….” Stiles pinched his brows together in a small frown. “I guess…in certain circumstances, I wouldn’t mind doing it. But I don’t want to—I don’t want to do all the cooking.” 

He flinched after he said that, like he expected Peter’s hand to go from soothing to violent. Peter held onto his temper with an effort, mentally adding a few days of torment to his internal revenge fantasies, and kept his fingers gentle as he rested them on Stiles’ shoulder. 

“No problem,” Danny said easily. “If you ever want to do a pack meal, go for it. Otherwise, Ethan likes to cook when we’re at home, and if he’s not into it, we can feed ourselves.” 

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, nearly inaudible. 

Ethan busied himself with fixing a plate of food and Danny joined him after giving Stiles another smile. Braeden loaded up on small red peppers stuffed with goat cheese, rolls of thinly sliced charcuterie, and pickled fruits. 

“This is very impressive, Ethan,” Peter commented. Stiles jolted, then quickly scrambled away, freeing Peter’s legs. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said. “You should eat.” 

“No rush,” Peter replied. “What looks good to you, Stiles?” 

Stiles stared at the choices, apparently overwhelmed. 

“Hm,” Peter said, then made a large plate with a bit of everything. “Come sit by me,” he encouraged Stiles, reseating himself on the couch and leaning back against one of the corners, his dinner on a side table. 

Stiles went back to sit on the floor, but Peter pulled him up to his lap instead. Stiles stiffened, then relaxed, leaning back into Peter’s chest. 

“Cracker?” Peter asked, offering Stiles a crisp square dotted with flakes of salt. Stiles hesitated, then reached out to take the cracker from Peter and bit into it. 

“Thanks,” said Stiles. He turned a small smile in Ethan’s direction. “And thanks for making all this. I’m sorry I kinda…freaked out.”

“It’s no big deal,” Ethan replied, relief clear in his face. “I hope you like it.” 

Peter gave Stiles a roll of salami, then a few olives of various colors. When Peter held out a bit of pickled sour plum, Stiles surprised and delighted him by leaning forward and taking it with his mouth. Peter realized a few seconds later that he was making a rumbling sort of purr and cleared his throat before feeding Stiles part of a cracker and more olives. 

Stiles rearranged himself to be snug against Peter, allowing the hand feeding, nourishing Peter’s alpha instincts until he found after quite some time that he was still hungry, whereas Stiles was finished eating and rubbing his cheek up and down Peter’s bicep. 

Peter ignored Braeden’s amused expression and polished off the rest of the food on his plate. 

“You gonna do the dishes?” Stiles peered up at him, grinning. 

\- X -

They spent the night in wolf form, all five of them curled up in a pile together in a corner of the den, nestled in pack-smelling blankets. Peter knew their wolves would react to each other in a primal way, and different aspects of pack bonding could take place when things were more emotionally straightforward and instinct-driven. 

Stiles as a wolf was pale grey, and his omega-silver eyes gleamed in the semi-darkness, unafraid to see the wolves in his new pack. He was smaller than the betas, but his movements were fluid and economical and when he turned to snap playfully at Danny for batting at his tail, he moved so quickly he seemed to blur. 

Danny leaped back, comically startled, his dark brown fur standing up a little. He fell against Ethan, who made a snuffling noise of amusement and urged Danny to lie down close, licking at his nose affectionately. The others settled in, scenting each other and wriggling until comfortable. Stiles curled up against Peter, the betas surrounding him, and Peter stayed awake until he felt Stiles’ heart rate slow and his body go limp in sleep. 

For a month after that first day in the house, they all slept as wolves in the same nest of blankets every night. Peter didn’t bring up the subject of where Stiles-the-human planned to sleep in the future, understanding that Stiles wanted the comfort of his pack when he slept but wasn’t ready to deal with all the complications human thought patterns would introduce. 

During the days, Peter worked on his burgeoning supernatural lore business and kept tabs on Derek’s pack through his various informants. The Hale pack had questioned Satomi— _with aggressive and inappropriate behavior,_ she’d added—on Stiles’ whereabouts, but her betas had done their work on eliminating any scent trails, and as far as Derek and Isobel were aware, Stiles and Peter’s track had disappeared once they ditched the rental car. 

Peter’s contact in the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department said the Dufort beta—who had officially joined Derek’s pack shortly after Stiles’ departure—hadn’t issued any kind of ongoing search for Stiles. Peter assumed Derek was caught in a trap of his own making there, because every authority who had been involved after Noah Stilinski had died believed Stiles was either legally under Derek’s guardianship or else living in another state with a relative. It made setting up any kind of missing-persons report impossible without admitting that Derek had bribed his way into fostering Stiles and then illegally removed him from school before his majority. 

Isobel wasn’t one to give up peacefully, though, and Peter heard through his own channels that Elizabeth Dufort and all the Dufort pack allies had set up their own searches for the missing Hale omega. They were also looking for Peter, and although Isobel and Elizabeth claimed Stiles had been kidnapped, Peter had his own alliances, and they were all aware of the strict adherence to pack protocol and tradition he had observed in leaving with Stiles.

Helpfully, Danny was also able to plant data in certain databases that showed Stiles applying for and receiving legal emancipation when he had turned seventeen earlier that year. The records of Stiles completing his education through homeschooling were legitimate this time, at least—within a week of his arrival at Peter’s pack house, Stiles was feverishly working on completing his high-school education. He was already close to catching up with Danny and Ethan, and Peter had been encouraging them to think about college. 

When Stiles wasn’t taking classes online and going through a self-directed curriculum, he was outside transforming a large section of their land into a garden. Peter had been surprised at first, not remembering Stiles as particularly outdoorsy, but then he thought of the months Stiles had spent confined to the Hale house interior, able to see the preserve but unable to set foot inside it. As the weather gradually warmed, Stiles began presenting Ethan with fruits and vegetables to work into his recipes, and the two had long conversations about the merits of various home-preservation techniques that frankly put Peter to sleep. 

Braeden spent the time she wasn’t on jobs training to stay in peak condition. As promised, she and Stiles practiced shooting, in addition to sparring and tumbling, once he had settled into the pack. After the first week of working with Braeden, Stiles burst into Peter’s office with the widest smile Peter had ever seen on his face. The smell of him—fresh, clean sweat and meltingly sweet honey—nearly overwhelmed Peter; it was even a joy to realize Stiles had barged in without knocking first. 

“Braeden says I’m a natural!” Stiles beamed, and flew into Peter’s lap to give him a tight hug. “I was always such a klutz before, but now I’m faster than she is, and I am awesome at gymnastics. Like, my body just seems to know what to do. It’s…amazing.” 

Peter couldn’t speak for a minute, his throat closing up with emotion. The thrill and wonder most newly turned werewolves experienced when they tried out their abilities had clearly been denied to Stiles until that point, and it hurt Peter to see it. 

But it was finally happening, Peter reassured himself, and Stiles seemed to be reveling in the agility of his smaller, quicker body, seeing the advantages instead of the weaknesses. 

“I’m so glad,” Peter replied as Stiles leaned back, still straddling his legs. 

“And look—I’ve been practicing this, too.” Stiles closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they glowed bright silver. He grinned at Peter, revealing unusually sharp teeth. As Peter watched, both wolf aspects returned to their human versions. 

“Very impressive control,” Peter commented. 

“Thanks!” Stiles gave Peter another quick hug. “And….”

Peter raised his eyebrows. 

“Derek’s bond is totally gone now,” Stiles said, staring at Peter with eyes that were omega-silver again. “The only alpha I can feel is you.” 

Peter’s heart beat faster and he thanked the stars above that Stiles wasn’t sitting even two inches closer, given Peter’s sudden and unwelcome stiffness in a certain area. He cleared his throat and kept his voice steady. 

“That’s wonderful news,” he said. “We should celebrate. As a pack. What would you like to do?” 

“Hmmm.” Stiles scooted closer, his slight weight so good against Peter’s erection that it made him growl a little. Stiles rocked back and forth once and Peter felt his eyes begin to glow red. 

“Stiles—” Peter got out, putting firm hands around Stiles’ slim hips and pulling him back. “This isn’t….” Peter was rarely at a loss for words, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to think. “You’re a month out from leaving Derek’s pack, and-and you’re…so young—”

“Derek didn’t think I was too young a year ago,” Stiles pointed out, trying to move forward again. 

“Please don’t compare me to Derek,” Peter said, keeping Stiles stationary. 

“I’m seventeen now,” Stiles protested. 

“And I’m over thirty,” Peter replied drily. 

“What about the instincts?” Stiles put his own hands over Peter’s. 

“Stiles,” Peter began, then sighed. “This is…a complicated situation. Yes, as alpha and omega we will find ourselves drawn to each other in…many ways. But regardless of whether or not you’re ready to go to therapy and work through everything that’s happened, the events of this year are still affecting you. I’m not saying I don’t find you attractive, or that we can never change the nature of our relationship. I am saying that anything physical beyond comfort and bonding is not going to happen right now.” 

Stiles stilled, giving Peter an annoyed look. 

“You need to talk to someone,” Peter said. “I have three recommendations, all supernatural-friendly, two of whom do sessions over video, so you can keep up with appointments anywhere we go. If you want to pursue this, pursue _me_ , I require you to be healthy. For my sake as much as yours.”

“Whatever,” Stiles muttered, slipping off Peter’s lap and leaning against the desk with a scowl. He fidgeted with one of Peter’s pens, clicking it up and down without any discernible rhythm. Peter heroically resisted the urge to take the pen away. “I get it.” Stiles set the pen down and stared at the floor. “I wouldn’t want to be with me, either. All you’ve done since you met me again is help me and do stuff for me.”

“I physically removed you from a situation you were trapped in, but the rest of your progress has been the result of your own efforts,” Peter said. “You’re grieving and depressed, Stiles. You lost everyone who loved you, and you may feel helpless, but you’re not. You must know that on some level, or you wouldn’t have taken the risk of leaving with me. Maybe you aren’t who you once were. Who is? Staying alive means continuing to change.” 

Stiles worried his lower lip between his teeth after Peter stopped talking and contemplated the pattern on the rug with intensity. 

“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, raising his head to give Peter an apologetic look. “That was…I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He perched on the edge of Peter’s desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Just now, that was the first time I’ve…since…. After my dad and Scotty, I just wasn’t able to…like, I never felt—” He broke off, shrugging. “I guess I got carried away when I realized I was…attracted to you.” 

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” said Peter. “But I was serious about the counseling.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles said. “I’ll think about it.” He made a strange face as he stood up, straightening his pants and trying to look down his back. 

“Are you all right?” Peter asked. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles said, edging toward the door. “I’ll, uh, see you later. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, but it can wait. I have to…check something out.” 

Stiles disappeared quickly, leaving Peter slightly puzzled but glad they hadn’t parted in animosity. Peter turned back to what he had been dealing with before Stiles came into the room: An update from one of Satomi’s betas, detailing the ways the Hale pack had violated pack law. Peter might not be able to go on another murderous rampage, but there were other ways to even up the score.


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles gently brushed dirt from the last of the season’s rhubarb and sat back, cross-legged, at the edge of his garden to pick through the red stalks carefully. He was thinking about making a compote to go with the batch of brioche he’d started the night before. For as much as Ethan liked cooking, he wasn’t much of a baker, but Stiles had found baking far more enjoyable than, say, preparing daily pack meals. Baking was precise and non-essential, meaning Stiles could lose himself in the history of enriched dough for entire days, then take over a section of the kitchen to experiment and no one would go hungry or complain if it took too long or didn’t turn out right. 

He could also abandon baking entirely for weeks without repercussions, like starvation. Stiles’ new favorite thing to do was start a complicated recipe that required multiple sessions of dough rising and spend that time reading crime novels, then create charts of how long it took him to solve the central mystery and which narrative elements were more successful in keeping his interest. He’d made significant progress working through the credit equivalents of his missing time in high school, so he started devoting his afternoons to baking, gardening, and reading. 

Stiles was aware that those activities were probably things the Duforts and their oppressive omega rules would approve of, but it was somehow different to pursue the hobbies as part of Peter’s pack. And the early-morning workouts with Braeden were definitely not something Isobel or Elizabeth would have allowed. Stiles flexed his biceps absently, enjoying the way the hard, corded muscle responded. He was a much better shot than he’d ever been before, which was satisfying, and the months of sparring and tumbling had made him feel like something out of an online RPG. 

His lean musculature wasn’t the only thing Stiles had been changing about his appearance. The shopping trip they had taken in Seattle months ago had marked a change in how he presented himself, and, with the exception of his gardening clothes, Stiles now tended to be meticulous about his appearance. He used tailored slacks, crisp oxford shirts, form-fitting sweaters, and even the occasional waistcoat to present an image that was radically different from any of his previous incarnations. He tried to keep a certain playfulness in the pattern and texture of his fabrics, though, and found he wasn’t trying to banish his old selves so much as explore ways to express his new one. 

And it was funny, how he felt okay letting the pack funds cover certain expenses. With Derek, Stiles had been hyper aware of every cent spent on him, and he’d tried hard to stretch his small inheritance. But with Peter’s pack it was all different—Stiles, Ethan, and Danny weren’t expected to contribute financially yet because they were still in school and traveled enough to disrupt any additional work. Peter was transparent with the pack’s bank account, and Stiles had been impressed at the figures and a lot less worried when Peter gave him free reign to order clothes and books online as a belated seventeenth birthday present. In fact, what Stiles had felt most strongly wasn’t guilt at all, it was the conviction that he was _cared for._

Thoughts drifting contentedly, Stiles finished sorting the rhubarb and set the bundle of acceptable stalks down so he could stretch back on the grass next to the raised-bed plot to let the sun warm him. Everything smelled mellow and earthy, and Stiles amused himself for a while by picking out individual plant scents. Lavender, basil, the thorny brambles of raspberries and marionberries…Stiles expanded his attention outward, catching hints of rabbit fur and pine needles and, if he really concentrated, a thread of sea brine. He imagined the planet thrumming deep below him, the soil sitting on rock and sediment, the energy of air and earth and ocean all connected. 

It was a part of the werewolf transformation Derek had never discussed, this greater appreciation of the natural world. Derek periodically had lectured his betas on how their wolves needed to be in balance with their human side, and how they should get to know the pack land, but it had all been framed in the larger picture of the Hale _territory_. Stiles thought it was a shame. He had washed his hands of the Hale pack betas, but he knew some of them would really enjoy being encouraged to feel a more elemental bond with the earth. 

Stiles rolled over to lie on his stomach, resting his head on his folded arms and inhaling the smell of _Peter_ and _alpha_ on his shirt. Well, technically it was Peter’s shirt, but Stiles was spending, on average, four nights a week sleeping in Peter’s absurdly large bed these days, so he felt comfortable stealing his alpha’s clothing, too. Especially if he was using it to garden. Plus it was just comforting to be surrounded by Peter’s scent, and since they were only _sleeping_ and not doing anything else together in that bed, Stiles thought loaning out clothing was the least Peter could do. 

Memories of Peter’s sleep-tousled hair and sleep-roughened voice were making Stiles anything but sleepy now. He groaned, telling himself to think of something else, but instead he burrowed his nose into the crook of his elbow, where the Peter-scent of the shirt was strongest. As he felt his cock harden inside his loose, dirt-stained jeans, the now-familiar sign of arousal in other areas became apparent, as well. 

The first time it had happened, in Peter’s office shortly after Stiles had thrown himself unsuccessfully at his alpha, Stiles had flipped out and rushed to the bathroom. He’d nearly worked himself into a panic attack wondering if he was somehow bleeding or having a truly horrific gastrointestinal episode. 

Instead, as he’d examined his body in the shower with trembling fingers, he had realized Alan Deaton’s blushing, uncomfortable recitation of omega sexual quirks had become relevant at last. Stiles had spent about fifteen minutes laughing weakly and somewhat hysterically at his magical, self-lubricating ass. 

Then he’d spent another fifteen minutes jerking off while taking advantage of his body’s ridiculous new feature. It was the first really good orgasm Stiles had had in months, and in the blissful aftermath, he began to feel whole again, like all the shattered parts of him were coming back together. He had drained the remainder of the house’s hot-water tank singing _Sexual Healing_ to himself while washing up. 

There had been quite a few long showers for him after that, which his therapist, Anna O’Connor—a former druid with a dry sense of humor and the ability to put Stiles at ease even over video—said was a sign of progress. She had even suffered through Stiles singing _sexual healing is good for me_ without complaint. 

Thinking of Dr. O’Connor did deflate Stiles’ burgeoning erection, at least, and he gathered up the rhubarb and headed into the house to check on the brioche dough. 

Satisfied with their rise, Stiles readied the little brioche á tête for baking then stuck them into the oven. As he washed and chopped the rhubarb for the compote, he admitted to himself that he was putting off what he knew he should be doing. The idyll of summer was nearing its close, as much as Stiles had enjoyed it. 

He’d talked to Dr. O’Connor about his plans during their last session, and although she had assured him that it was necessary and right for him to recover and rebalance himself before confronting the situation in Beacon Hills, she had also agreed that if he felt ready to face it, he was strong and healthy enough to do so. 

For the most part, Stiles and Peter had ignored the looming specter of Derek and the Hale pack, limiting themselves to brief questions and answers, but Stiles knew it was time to begin truly working together. Peter’s pack was unified at last, and Stiles could identify each bond he shared with the other members. They’d learned each other’s rhythms and habits and fallen into a comfortable pattern of days. 

But they all knew what was ahead. Peter couldn’t let the Hale pack continue on its path, and Stiles had caught glimpses of the reports Satomi’s betas sent Peter. The Hale pack was careless around humans and aggressive about expanding its borders, among other things. Stiles knew Peter was working on going through official channels to force Derek into making changes, but healing the Hale pack would require the elimination of its root sickness: Isobel. 

Just saying her name in his head made Stiles’ hands shake and he quickly set down his knife, taking a few deep breaths before dumping the rhubarb into a saucepan. He added sugar and watched the mixture heat slowly, stirring the fibrous red stalks until they disintegrated. 

When it was done, Stiles cleaned up, took out the brioche to cool, and went to find Peter. On the way to the alpha’s office, Stiles pocketed the phone he’d taken from the Hale house, forcing his breathing steady and even. 

When he got to Peter’s room, the door was open and Peter was waiting for him, presumably having either heard his rapidly beating heart or sensed his unease over their bond or both. Stiles was just grateful that Peter had likely already guessed what they were going to discuss. 

“Have a seat,” Peter said and Stiles sank into the chair across Peter’s desk, putting the phone in front of him. Peter looked at it curiously, but didn’t pick it up. 

“So,” Stiles began. “I’m ready. To go back.”

“You don’t have to,” Peter said. “I have enough on the Hale pack to warrant probation from the shifter council. I’m sorry to say that there isn’t anything dire enough on Isobel to force her out or incur any more significant punishment, but—”

“I can, uh,” Stiles cleared his throat. “I can pretty much guarantee a more _dire_ punishment. But not from the shifter council. From the Hunters. But I will have to testify. Against…I-Isobel.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t—I wasn’t ready to deal with this until recently.” Stiles powered the phone on and tapped his fingers against the desk’s surface restlessly. “So…last year. It was after Thanksgiving. Early December.”

Stiles took another breath before continuing. 

“There was this deputy at my dad’s office, Tara Graeme. She was…great. After my mom died, she used to watch me at the station sometimes, give me these logic puzzles to work on. Every year around the holidays she’d come over one day to help me make my dad a batch of high-fiber, low-fat cookies. I didn’t see her as much after Scott was turned….” Stiles broke off and blinked back a sudden wetness in his eyes. “Anyway. I guess she got suspicious when she couldn’t find a place to send a holiday card last year and no one seemed to have a straight answer about my new address. She heard about my connection with Derek, so she went to the house one night after work to see if she could figure out where I was. 

“I was…it was right after the Dufort pack had left from Thanksgiving and I needed some space to be…away from stuff. I was outside in the shed. There had just been a huge storm and the power was knocked out, so the generator was running and I knew no one could hear me over the noise. I hid out there to read on my phone. I heard a patrol car come up the drive and for a second I thought it was—it’s stupid, but I convinced myself it was…my dad.”

Stiles bit his lip and Peter made a low sound, his hand coming to rest over Stiles’ fidgeting fingers like a warm blanket. 

“Of course it wasn’t. It was Tara, but before she even got out of the car, Derek and Isobel were outside to confront her. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Derek went back inside after a couple of minutes and it was just Tara and-and Isobel. Her body language was all _wrong_. Isobel, I mean…she was smiling, but everything was…scary. I was already outside by the garage, because I had wanted to see if it was…my dad…so I just…recorded them on my phone. I don’t know why. But something about Isobel was—” Stiles shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know what Isobel told Tara, but Tara didn’t look happy and they were arguing. Tara tried to get Isobel to let her into the house, but Isobel wouldn’t budge. I was worried about Tara. Isobel doesn’t like it when people question her, and Tara didn’t quit when she started on a case. 

“It looked like Isobel was trying to get Tara to leave and Tara wasn’t going. Then they both got into the car and drove away. I stayed outside to check that the video had recorded okay, and after a while, Tara’s car came back…but only Isobel was in it.”

“Wait,” Peter interrupted. “What are you—”

“I followed Isobel back inside and I heard her tell Derek that Tara knew he’d bribed his way into guardianship of me. Isobel said she had paid Tara off the same way, that she’d given Tara enough money to do whatever she wanted and Tara had run with it. Isobel said Tara had taken off that night because she was afraid Isobel would change her mind and take the money back. She said she’d dropped Tara at the train station and the Dufort pack deputy who was planning to join the Hale pack would take care of the car. I knew Isobel was lying, even though she’s really good at keeping her heart rate steady, because I _knew_ Tara. She wouldn’t have taken a bribe. She wouldn’t have…left me.” 

“Stiles—” 

“Just listen.” Stiles exhaled slowly. “I went out again that night to see where Isobel and Tara had gone. It was the night…the night I told you I had the episode, remember? Except I didn’t just leave to walk aimlessly. I tracked the path they’d taken. Into the preserve. I don’t know what Isobel told Tara to get her out there, but the trail led pretty far in. And then…Tara….” Stiles broke off. 

“Isobel killed her,” Peter finished for him, sitting back with a sickened expression.

“I-I still remember where it happened. I marked it. I tried to get away, but they must have noticed I was missing. I’m sure Isobel guessed…it had taken a long time to find Tara’s…well, to find where Isobel had…put her. I really did break my arm by falling, but I was also running from Isobel and Derek. I was far away from Tara when they caught up. I don’t know—I don’t think Derek knows, Peter, honestly. But Isobel…she took one look at me and knew I'd worked out _something_.”

“And I’m guessing that shortly after that you found yourself on house arrest,” said Peter. “How did Isobel explain that one?”

“Well, I was out of my mind with exhaustion and hypothermia and a broken arm,” Stiles said wearily. “She told Derek I was hysterical and had probably overheard Tara’s voice and been reminded of the trauma of my dad’s death…she said I’d had some sort of, well, _episode_. She told him I needed to focus on accepting my omega-hood, or whatever, that I was too fragile…I’ll admit that my condition at that point pretty much supported her argument. I tried to tell Derek what Isobel had done, but I wasn’t healing quickly and I’d been given some werewolf-strength painkillers, the kind they use for alpha-inflicted wounds. I might have said some other stuff about Isobel that Derek didn’t take too well.

“She convinced Derek I was some horrible combination of fucked up from grief and jealous from when he and I used to hook up. She also guilted him pretty hardcore about the things he’d done to gain custody of me, reminded him of everything he’d accomplished so far and how screwed he’d be if any of his semi-illegal stuff came out. And I had totally lost it by then and when Derek came into my room I basically accused him of being the shittiest alpha in the history of any pack and told him Isobel was an abusive liar. None of it came out very coherently.”

Stiles scrubbed his fingers through his hair and sighed. “I essentially guaranteed that he would never take me seriously.” 

“Because he’s _unfit_ to lead _anything_ ,” Peter snarled, standing up so abruptly his chair fell behind him. 

Stiles raised placating hands, rising more cautiously. 

“Whoa,” Stiles said, voice soothing. Peter’s eyes were glowing an incandescent, furious red and Stiles felt his own eyes flash silver in response. Something in his mind calmed, and he reached a hand out to his alpha, smelling a kind of warm, honey sweetness rise from his own skin. The scent seemed to have its own agenda, and twined around the sharp, metallic odor of Peter’s anger, gentling it as the aromas mixed. 

“I’m going to kill him!” Peter raged, but already Stiles sensed that his alpha was more in control of himself. 

“We’re going to fix this together,” Stiles corrected. “If you kill Derek, the council will take you away. I can’t lose you, Peter. The pack can’t lose you.” 

He put his palms on Peter’s chest and focused on generating the _warm peace calm_ feeling, trying to keep himself in that quiet, bright spot in his head and finding it easier and easier. 

Peter eventually relaxed, the tension in his body fading, and he dropped his head to brush his lips against Stiles’ temple. 

“All right,” he said. “We’ll work together to penalize Derek’s pack within legally accepted means. But Isobel—”

“The Hunters will take care of her,” Stiles said firmly. “She murdered a human.” 

“My contacts aren’t strong with the Hunters,” Peter admitted. 

“But mine are,” Stiles said, surprising himself with the strength of his grin. “I know you want to rip her chest open and force Derek to eat her heart. Obviously I do, too. But even more than that, I want to see her officially condemned by a traditional authority and made to face justice. That’s her whole life—self-righteousness and the belief that she’s the law. Alpha Dufort’s the same. They think nothing can touch them. I want them both taken down, but I don’t want to go down with them to do it. Murder is not accepted by any council, and we both know it. You’re lucky you got away with what you did to the arsonists, Peter.” 

“Yes, I realize that. My subsequent death was…rather useful for confusing the issue, I suppose….” Peter frowned thoughtfully and sat down on the floor, dragging Stiles down with him. “I had some ideas for dealing with Derek earlier. I assume you plan to bring your Hunter friends into this? Derek hasn’t done much that they can reprimand him for, aside from being generally sloppy in concealing himself from humans, but the shifter council is another matter.”

“We should talk to the whole pack,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell everyone this stuff earlier. It’s just—”

“You don’t have to explain.” Peter brought Stiles closer and put both arms around him. “It’s not like we could act on anything immediately, and from what you’ve said, most of the case against Isobel will depend on your testimony to the Hunter council—you’re right. That isn’t something you were up for when you left Beacon Hills.”

“Mmm,” Stiles agreed. 

“We’ll gather everyone together. Talk this through.”

“Yeah.” Stiles rubbed his cheek against Peter’s soft, cotton henley. The world was still a little fuzzy, and he was gradually coming out of the place in his head where he could access the…whatever Jiro had called it… _analeptikos_. “In a bit.” 

He leaned up, lightly brushing his lips against Peter’s, back and forth, until Peter groaned, pushing into Stiles’ mouth and gripping him around the back of his neck. Stiles reacted the way his body was designed to, going limp and pliant at the hold, but this time it felt amazing, like Peter was surrounding him and supporting him. 

He tilted his head back, exposing his neck and feeling a rush of damp heat that made him flush. Peter bent to run his teeth across the tender skin bared for him and Stiles shivered. Peter’s hands shifted to Stiles’ hips, and when he put his lips to the pulse point on Stiles’ neck and sucked, Stiles whimpered, loudly. 

Peter drew back, looking reluctant. In response, Stiles buried his fingers in the alpha’s hair and yanked, trying to bring him down again. 

“Come back,” Stiles whined. 

“I’m not going to fuck you for the first time on my office floor five minutes after you had to bring me down from genuinely planning to murder Derek,” Peter told him. Stiles scowled then brightened. 

“But…you do plan to fuck me for the first time at some point…right?” 

Peter tugged a lock of Stiles’ hair in retaliation, smiling reluctantly. 

“We’ll see. Brat.” 

“I’m not a brat,” said Stiles, letting his eyes go silver and gazing up at Peter from partially lowered lashes. “I’m your omega and you’re my alpha.” His voice was cajoling and Peter’s pupils dilated at the tone. Stiles held his breath, but Peter just closed his eyes briefly and laughed a little. 

“As I said. Brat.” Peter rose, taking Stiles with him. “I’ll gather my notes and then we should talk with the whole pack about what our next steps are.”

“Fine,” Stiles said. “But first I have to take a shower.”


	14. Chapter 14

Peter led his pack back to Beacon Hills on a sunny afternoon in early September. They were all prepared in different ways, Peter thought, tracking his pack’s reactions as they passed the sign marking the Beacon Hills border. 

Braeden was fairly relaxed; to her this was about defending her pack mates and she was getting into a place mentally where she could stay calm while still being ready to spring into action. Ethan looked sad; this was the place his twin had been killed, and the place his former alpha had abandoned him. Danny was fiercely determined; he planned to reunite with his mother and sister and tell them the truth about the supernatural world—and he would do whatever it took to ensure the town was safe for them. 

Stiles was tense. Peter could detect the ashy, chalky smell of Stiles’ anxiety even through the mingled pack scents in the truck. Stiles was controlled and serene on the outside, though, and if Peter hadn’t known him so well, he might not have guessed at his unrest. He looked impeccable and startlingly adult, his sartorial armor firmly in place, from the top of his artfully styled hair to the tips of his wingtip boots. 

The footwear was, perhaps, slightly impractical for the place they were headed, but Peter understood better than most the emotional value of presenting a specific image. When he stopped the car at the entrance to the Beacon Hills nature preserve and the pack got out, he was proud to see that Stiles didn’t hesitate to walk at Peter’s side through the trees. 

They neared the agreed-upon spot after a mostly silent trip through a landscape of late-summer flowers, shade-dappled paths, and the gentle rustle of leafy boughs. It verged on surreal to see the undeniable beauty of the land while heading toward a tribunal that could only end with blood spilled. Peter let the smells of the preserve distract him as they walked, a bittersweet familiarity tickling his nose. He had grown up in these hills and hollows, learned how to become a wolf and a man alongside his siblings and cousins. It wasn’t _home_ anymore, though, Peter realized. For all that the Hale lands were dear and known, they had become a part of his past. 

He and Stiles led their pack to the wide clearing where the other tribunal participants had gathered already. Peter catalogued the tightly grouped factions without surprise. Derek, Isobel, and a man in a deputy’s uniform who could only be Colin Lacey, the most recent Hale pack acquisition, stood in one cluster, surrounded by a small circle of mountain ash. 

On the other side of the clearing, Jiro and Ume Kobayashi stood straight and still; although their faces were impassive, Peter saw Ume give Stiles a wink when she nodded at them in greeting. Next to the Kobayashi siblings waited Satomi Ito and two other werewolves from the shifter council, Richard Emory and Greta Maan. A small distance away stood Allison Argent, flanked by her father and two other Hunters, whom Peter knew to be Galina Sokolova and Chris’ cousin Luc Argent, both members of the Hunter council. 

From the center of those assembled, Alan Deaton smiled at Peter’s pack and moved forward to break the larger ring of mountain ash that encompassed the whole clearing. Once they had all stepped inside, Alan closed the circle with a _snap_ Peter felt throughout his body. 

“Now that we have all arrived, let’s begin,” Alan said, turning to look at everyone group by group. “This tribunal has called Alpha Derek Hale, as well as Hale pack betas Isobel Dufort-Hale and Colin Lacey, to answer for crimes they have committed. The accusations and evidence of the crimes will be presented.”

“Yes, we were forced out of our homes to accompany your enforcers, druid,” said Isobel with a snarl. “And I demand to know why these _Hunters_ are here.” 

“They are here because some of the crimes concern laws we enforce jointly with the Hunter council,” Greta Maan informed her, eyes briefly flashing alpha red. “In fact, the Hunters’ primary concern at this time is the accusation that you, Isobel Dufort-Hale, committed the murder of human law-enforcement officer Tara Graeme.” 

“Where would you get such an idiotic idea?” Isobel scoffed, but Derek made a short, choked-off noise of surprise. “If you want to address _crimes_ , why is that rogue alpha Peter Hale still running around? He abducted our pack omega, did he tell you that? This trial had better result in the omega being returned where he belongs.” 

The chalky-anxiety scent rose sharply from Stiles and Peter both put a hand on his back and sent a reassuring warmth through their bond. Although Stiles’ muscles remained stiff under Peter’s palm, the chalk-ash odor diminished somewhat. 

“We will come to the issue of omega werewolf Mieczysław Stilinski in time, Ms. Dufort-Hale,” Greta replied sternly. “Ms. Sokolova, Mr. Argent, if you will?” 

She gestured for the two Hunter council representatives to step forward, and Peter watched Derek’s face turn from aggravated and confused to shocked and horrified as the Hunters produced a bloodied deputy’s uniform from the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department. 

“Allison Argent, Hunter matriarch, brought evidence to the Hunter council that a beta werewolf in the Hale pack of Beacon Hills, California, had murdered a human and concealed her body within the county’s nature preserve,” Galina Sokolova stated. Her voice was gravelly with a pronounced Russian accent, and Peter knew from his brief experiences with her that she wouldn’t fail to uphold any part of the Hunter code once her mind was made up. 

“We investigated the case,” Luc Argent continued, “talking, as Allison had, with werewolf Mieczysław Stilinski. He provided video proof that Isobel Dufort-Hale met with the victim the night before Ms. Graeme allegedly left Beacon Hills to enjoy a sudden inheritance. Mr. Stilinski also gave us a set of coordinates where he believed Ms. Graeme’s body was buried. According to Mr. Stilinski, Ms. Dufort-Hale lured Ms. Graeme into the preserve and killed her, then buried her body and had Colin Lacey, former Dufort pack and current Hale pack member, conceal the evidence and create the illusion that Ms. Graeme had come into money and left voluntarily.” 

“We followed the coordinates Mr. Stilinski gave us,” Galina said, staring right at Isobel. “We not only discovered Tara Graeme’s corpse, we found clear evidence that she died from a werewolf’s claws to the throat. Our investigation indicated that her time of death could easily be when Mr. Stilinski said it took place.”

“With the exception of the Hale pack and my own betas, the only werewolves to set foot on _my_ land in the last year have been those from the Kobayashi pack, and they didn’t arrive until spring,” Satomi said. “I would be able to sense if any others had been in my pack’s territory.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Isobel broke in, giving a forced, angry laugh. “I don’t know what kind of _video_ Stiles has, but—”

“It’s from his phone,” Danny interjected. “It has all kinds of embedded data. Location and time, for example. Not that easy to manipulate.”

“You’re seen arguing with Ms. Graeme and then you both get into her car and drive away,” Luc added. 

“All right, I did see her that night. She—” Isobel glared over at Derek, visibly gathering her thoughts. “Okay, I know this isn’t totally legal, but after Stiles’ dad died, Stiles didn’t have anywhere else to go. Derek was doing him a _favor_ by taking him in, but the paperwork was crazy, and if Derek had waited for all the administrative stuff to go through, Stiles would have been away from a pack for too long. And that’s assuming Derek would have been given custody. I don’t know if any of you _authorities_ are familiar with omega werewolves, but they’re not really that tough. Stiles needed to be part of the pack right away so he didn’t hurt himself. 

“Anyway, my point is that Tara figured out that Derek’s fostering process wasn’t totally authorized and she showed up to threaten us. Legally. I gave her some money to go away so that Stiles wouldn’t have to go through the court system. She took it and left after I dropped her at the train station. I don’t know what happened to her after that.” 

“Isobel.” Derek spoke for the first time and Peter focused again on his nephew, seeing that his gaze was still fixed in nauseated fascination on the dirt- and blood-smeared uniform. “You didn’t…tell me you didn’t do this. You told me—you said she just wanted a bribe. You said she just wanted money. Did she…did she—oh, god, please tell me you didn’t do this.” 

“How dare you question my behavior?” Isobel hissed at Derek. 

“Here’s the timeline, Derek,” said Luc, addressing the distraught alpha in a calm, smooth voice that was less formal than his earlier tones. “On the night of December tenth, Tara Graeme arrived at your home in the evening. She was recorded having a disagreement with Isobel and seen leaving in Tara’s car with Tara. The next morning, Tara’s car was gone. Someone notified her landlord that she was breaking her lease and paid to have her things cleared out of her apartment. Tara’s work email account was used to send every contact on her personal list a message saying she had come into money and was moving out of town but wasn’t sure where she would settle down yet. That is the last communication anyone who knew Tara ever received. When we followed Stiles’ coordinates, we found Tara’s body, with signs that she was murdered sometime late last year.”

“You’re not _cops_ ,” Isobel snapped, although she looked white around the mouth, Peter noted. 

“And you’re not someone who can be brought to justice under human law,” Luc replied. “It’s the covenant of the Assembly of Wolves and the Hunter council: We keep each other in check, and we _both agree_ that crimes against humans by shifters are punishable by Hunters. Now. We have an eyewitness _and_ video evidence linking Isobel and Tara the night before Tara supposedly moved away. They were arguing. We have Tara’s body and we know she was killed around the same time she was said to have left. The marks we found on her could only have been made by a werewolf. Mieczysław said he tracked the car’s path from your home through the preserve later that night and then followed the trail left by Isobel and Tara, right up to the place Tara was murdered. The location he gave was right.” 

“You’re the alpha of this territory, Derek Hale. Tell us who did this if not your mate.” Galina’s pale blue eyes were icy as she stared at Derek. 

“How do you know it wasn’t Stiles?” Isobel burst out. “He’s the most obvious guilty party.”

“Tara was at the Hale house to make sure Stiles was safe, actually,” Luc said. “There isn’t much audible on the video, but we have a lip-read transcript of what we could make out. You and Tara were arguing about Stiles.”

“Yes, to extort money from Derek!” Isobel snapped. “Omegas are emotionally fragile—maybe Stiles was upset that Tara was trying to make money off him. He probably followed her—”

“Stop.” Derek’s voice cut Isobel’s red-faced arguing off. “Stiles didn’t do this. Stiles _couldn’t_ do this. I don’t…I don’t know what else is going on here, but I do know that Stiles’ dad meant everything to him. No matter what kinds of changes Stiles made when he took the bite…he wouldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , have hurt someone from the sheriff’s department like this. Not someone his dad cared about. Not someone who’d cared about his dad. No matter what. Even if she’d asked for a million dollars and left him to rot. He just…he wouldn’t be _able_ to do it.” 

Derek finally tore his eyes away from Tara’s uniform, glancing for a second in Stiles’ direction then fixing his stare on Galina. “Isobel did this,” he said starkly. “She…she has a tendency to act impulsively and sometimes…forcefully. I thought…she smelled like blood that night, but she said—” he winced “—that she had stopped on the way back from taking Tara to the train station to help someone who’d been in a car accident.” 

Peter tried hard to restrain himself from either rolling his eyes or leaping at Derek to punch him in the face. His idiocy, truly, was breathtaking. Next to him, Stiles was breathing quickly, but the anxiety had quieted and he was regaining some of his natural omega-sweet scent, along with something faintly bitter-sad. 

“The Hunter council judges that Isobel Dufort-Hale is responsible for the unprovoked and unjustified murder of human Tara Graeme.” Galina’s words were measured and final. 

“The Assembly of Wolves judges that Hale pack beta Isobel Dufort-Hale unlawfully and unjustifiably killed human Tara Graeme,” said Greta. 

Luc, Allison, and Chris formally agreed to the decree, then Satomi and Richard did, as well. Peter kept an eye on Derek’s contingent as the decision was made; although he knew the Hale and Dufort pack members hadn’t been allowed external weapons, he also knew a werewolf didn’t need more than a free hand to do irreparable damage. 

“What is the sentence?” Derek asked, and Peter could hear the rapid patter of his heart. 

“Death,” Allison answered, stepping forward with a powerful-looking crossbow. 

Several things happened simultaneously, and Peter was distracted for a few seconds by looking over to make sure Derek didn’t do anything suicidal or heroic or something he might stupidly believe would combine the two. Five beta werewolves of the council emerged from the trees to stand guard outside the larger mountain-ash circle, while Galina, Luc, Richard, and Greta approached the smaller ash circle. 

Galina broke the circle, but even as the council members moved forward to restrain those inside, a desperate and furious Isobel leapt past Peter at Stiles, her fangs descended and her eyes glowing. Peter lunged to get in front of her, but Stiles was simply faster. Before Peter had registered it, Stiles had his gun from Braeden in his hand. 

He shot Isobel in mid-air, hitting her on a tender spot just above the left elbow with a wolfsbane bullet. She yelped and fell heavily, clutching at the bloody wound and hissing at Stiles. He gave her a cold, unaffected stare, despite the frantic pulse Peter could see in his throat. 

“You won’t live long enough for it to matter,” he said in a mostly level voice, “but maybe for the three minutes you feel it, you’ll remember to be more polite.” 

Then Allison put a wolfsbane-dipped bolt into Isobel’s heart, pinning her to the forest floor while blood pooled beneath her cooling body. 

Alan reformed the imprisoning mountain-ash circle around the remaining Hale pack members, and Derek gave a choked sob as he looked at Isobel. Chris gripped Allison’s shoulder for a second as he walked past her with an ancient-looking sword. Peter watched the Hunter bring the blade across Isobel’s body with a powerful downward swing, severing it in the gruesome but traditional Hunter execution style. 

Luc and Galina witnessed that Isobel’s sentence had been carried out, then draped a tarp over what was left of her and turned to complete the rest of the tribunal.

Peter blinked when he remembered that there were further accusations to hear. The icy anger that had held Stiles up during the confrontation with Isobel had melted and Peter put a supportive arm around his omega’s shoulders, taking enough of his weight to help him stand, but not so much that it was obvious Stiles was struggling.

“Colin Lacey,” Greta said. “The Assembly of Wolves finds you guilty of aiding the late Ms. Dufort-Hale in covering up her crime. Your sentence is two years’ probation under both the Hunter council and our Assembly.” 

Colin nodded, making no protest as his eyes strayed toward the bisected shape beneath the tarp. 

“Alpha Derek Hale.” Greta nodded toward Derek. “Following your alliance with the Dufort pack, the Assembly received numerous reports and complaints about your aggression toward other wolves and packs who pass near your territory boundaries. Under law, if another wolf or pack gives you notification of intent to peacefully pass through your territory, you are obligated to honor it. We also have documentation indicating that your pack has been…careless around the human population. Your betas have been indiscreet about using their physical advantages, particularly in school-sponsored sporting events. Their actions could easily have injured or even killed their human classmates. We must maintain the agreements set in place with the Hunters, which means not endangering humans, and not forcefully turning them.”

“And you violated that agreement when you turned Daniel Māhealani without his consent,” Satomi said. 

Derek, looking overwhelmed, turned eyes red-rimmed from tears toward Peter’s pack. 

“What?” he asked. “I-I didn’t…I thought he—”

“I didn’t want to become a werewolf, Derek,” Danny said. “You just asked me if I wanted amnesia from monster claws in my neck or to live as a supernatural wolf creature. I don’t remember there being much discussion.” Danny was quiet for a few minutes, and the sounds of Derek’s harsh breaths were audible even to the humans. “I don’t think you’re, like, evil incarnate or anything. I’m not formally bringing this before the council as a separate punishable offense. I’m using it as another example of how out of control you are as an alpha. I don’t want you to die, Derek, but I don’t think you can keep going like this, either.” 

“Some troubling patterns have come to light with everything we’ve heard and uncovered,” Greta said. “Mr. Stilinski has told us he doesn’t believe you knew anything about the murder of Ms. Graeme, but I have significant documentation and testimonies about problematic behaviors and systematic abuses taking place within your pack. This, together with the actions of your chosen mate, suggests either gross negligence or fundamental incompetence as an alpha.” 

“It’s-it’s the alpha’s right to…to lead however….” Derek covered his face with his hands, trembling. He lifted his head, green eyes lost and angry. “Hunters killed my family, did they mention that?” 

Peter wanted to stem the impending flow of words, but Derek kept going, letting it burst from him like he’d suppressed his feelings for years. 

He stabbed a finger in Chris Argent’s direction. “His sister fucked me when I was just a kid…she killed my _mom_. Nothing was…I could never be the same…after. I tried so hard, I wanted to make it like it was when the Hale pack meant _family_ and-and safety.”

Peter averted his eyes, unable to watch as Derek broke down completely. All the arrogance had been knocked from him and he looked like he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own much longer. 

“Hey,” Stiles said, moving closer to Derek with something like pity on his face. 

Derek looked over at him, really taking in how sleek and healthy Stiles was, and frowned in confusion. 

“Why did you leave me?” Derek asked, and Stiles stopped where he was, anger replacing the sympathy in his eyes. 

“You know why, Derek Hale. You _know_ why. You might be fucked in the head, but even you must have noticed what it was like for me, living in that house with no way to escape. You’re telling me that you, a born wolf and an alpha, couldn’t smell the _hurt_ I dealt with? The bruises, the scratches, the way I was always so _afraid_ all the time? Did you think I just gave up one day on school? On college? That I thought, you know what, my real dream in life is to cook and clean for a psychopath and her apprentices.” Stiles took a shaky breath. “It just…it’s hard to believe there was a point I’d do anything you wanted if you’d just been _there_ for me—” 

“Stiles.” Peter stood at his side, offering his hand and feeling a soul-deep satisfaction when Stiles took it without hesitation, letting Peter draw him back to the rest of their pack. 

“We have testimony from Peter Hale, Maria Braeden, Ethan Ross, Daniel Māhealani, and licensed psychologist Anna O’Connor detailing Mr. Stilinski’s emotional and physical condition when he voluntarily left the pack of Alpha Derek Hale,” Greta said. “Alpha Hale, your former omega pack member was malnourished, injured, and traumatized, and his pack bonds were very weak. For an omega—from what we know at least—this is especially egregious, given how robust their pack bonds are meant to be.” She turned to Alan Deaton. “Would the representative from the Council of Druids like to add anything?”

“Only that I feel that I’ve failed the Hale pack on a personal level,” Alan said, regret deepening the lines on his face. 

“No,” Derek replied hoarsely. “No, it’s…it’s on me.” He squared his shoulders and faced the werewolf council. “I’ll accept whatever sentence you think is fair.”

“Derek Hale, you have been judged unfit for alpha leadership, and will be stripped of your place at the head of the pack. You may choose to either give up your alpha spark and join another pack as a beta, or become _eremos_ and accept confinement for the remainder of your life.” Greta gave the options without a hint of sympathy. 

Jiro stepped forward unexpectedly and Peter tilted his head, curious. 

“If you choose to become a beta again, I’d like to offer you a place in my pack,” he said. 

“Why would you do that?” Derek wondered, wiping a rough hand across his eyes before meeting Jiro’s steady gaze. 

“You’ve obviously made some mistakes,” Jiro responded. “But I don’t think you’re beyond redemption. You might not like what you are now, but you seem to want to face it. Make changes.”

Derek nodded slowly. 

“But what about my betas?” he asked Greta and Richard. “They don’t—nothing here is their fault. I can’t just leave them.”

“They will be given the option to join the pack that takes the former Hale territory. If that doesn’t suit them, they can either find a new pack of their own choosing within one month or be assigned to one by the council,” Richard explained. 

“And who’s…who’s going to be the new alpha for the Hale land?” Derek asked, visibly trying not to shake as he discussed giving up the territory his family had held for generations. And likely—justifiably—blaming himself, Peter thought. 

“Alpha Kobayashi has worked with the Assembly of Wolves and the Hunter council for years on areas of joint jurisdiction,” Satomi said, a hint of fond pride in her voice. “His pack is stable and well-regarded, but they’ve been too busy with their work until recently to settle down. I will nominate Jiro to take over the former Hale lands.”

“If Satomi’s nomination is approved, I promise to be a good and strong guardian to the land, Derek,” Jiro said, and Derek acknowledged him with another nod, looking incapable of more. 

“I call this tribunal closed,” Greta announced. 

“The Hunter council agrees,” Galina said. 

The others gave their assent and Alan Deaton broke both mountain-ash barriers, allowing the council werewolves waiting outside the ring to escort Colin Lacey away. In the clearing, Derek was facing Alan, Greta, and Satomi. Peter turned his back to the group, not wanting to see the moment Derek lost the Hale alpha spark. He felt a familiar, comforting presence at his side and wordlessly opened his arms for Stiles to press close. 

“He’s going to be okay,” Stiles whispered, willingly mussing his hair to nuzzle into Peter’s chest and impart his honey-clover scent to Peter’s shirt. “He made the right choice and I think he might be a lot happier now.” 

“Thank you,” Peter murmured back, astonished all over again at Stiles’ resilience and compassion. 

The rest of Peter’s pack crowded close, lending him support and affection and lighting up his pack bonds with feelings of _home_ and _love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That part's finally done. I think it's safe to say I won't be (and shouldn't be!) pursuing any kind of crime and/or legal drama–type writing in the future.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not condone riding in a car without a seatbelt. (Click it or ticket!; Seat belts save lives, Buckle up every time; Be alert! Accidents hurt; etc.)

Stiles rode in Peter’s lap on the drive back to Satomi’s territory. He figured, fuck it, Braeden was a careful driver and if they got into an accident, his healing would probably keep him safe enough. Stiles needed Peter’s arms around him and Peter’s heartbeat steady beneath his cheek and Peter’s warm, evergreen-and-amber scent filling his nose. 

He’d never shot anyone before. Stiles had known going into the tribunal that Isobel wasn’t likely to make it out of the mountain-ash circles alive, but when he had put the shoulder holster under his light jacket that morning, it had been with the idea that the gun would make him feel safer, not that he would actually use it. 

As much as Stiles had hated Isobel, as much as he had wanted vengeance, it had still turned his stomach to see her body dismembered by Chris Argent, Allison’s crossbow bolt quivering in Isobel’s bloodied chest. 

Stiles pushed his face deeper into Peter’s neck and the alpha tightened his arms around Stiles, seeking his own comfort. 

Danny was sitting in the front next to Braeden and Ethan was leaning forward to talk to both of them. Stiles tuned back into their conversation as the truck neared one of the guest cabins on Satomi’s land. 

“…worry about Peter?” Ethan asked. 

“What about Peter?” Stiles demanded, lifting his head. 

“Ethan was asking how Peter got around a Hunter-style execution after killing the people involved in the Hale fire,” Danny answered. 

“It comes down to honoring the spirit of the law rather than blindly adhering to the letter,” Peter began, but Braeden laughed and cut him off.

“Once I was sure Peter was stable and sane, I didn’t want him, the alpha of my pack, carted off to face a death sentence,” she said. “Peter and I worked with the Assembly of Wolves and the Council of Druids to persuade the Hunter council he could be trusted. There were some technicalities that helped—”

“I did, after all, _technically_ die from a vigilante execution, courtesy of Derek,” Peter pointed out.

“—and some testimony from a psychologist who spoke with Peter at length about his state of mind. And we had some powerful druid allies who were able to all but guarantee that Peter would never go on another killing spree,” Braeden continued. 

“The supernatural world’s definition of justice is more…primal than the human version. Although my actions were certainly reason enough for most Hunters to kill me immediately, there was the matter of my motivation. And that turned out to be far more important to the druid and werewolf councils than the Hunters’ more rigid code.”

“So they’re not taking Peter any time soon,” Ethan concluded, sounding relieved. 

“I wouldn’t let them,” Stiles replied, surprising himself with the fierceness of his voice. Peter bent his head to press a kiss just below his ear and Stiles shivered. 

Braeden pulled the truck in front of the cabin the pack was sharing that night, parking next to a familiar-looking, black SUV. 

The pack piled out of the truck and followed Peter into the house, where Allison, Chris, Luc, and two more Hunters were standing around the living room, looking slightly uneasy. 

“You made it,” Stiles said, moving forward to give Allison a hug. She relaxed and hugged him back, and when Stiles released her, it was to find himself swept up and caught against Chris Argent’s chest, the Hunter’s hard, muscled arms tight around him. 

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Chris murmured. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles said, stepping back when Chris let him go to look up at him and smile. “Everything worked out.” 

“I…left you, and….” Chris rubbed a hand over his eyes and shook his head. 

“In the end, you were in a perfect place to help,” said Stiles. “Without the help of the Argents, I don’t think we could have done this.” 

“Oh! I don’t think you’ve met the rest of my family,” Allison said, gesturing at the rest of her group. “You all saw Luc earlier today, but this is his son, Bastien, and our cousin, Emilie.” 

The two other Argents nodded at Peter’s pack, wary but respectful. Bastien was about Stiles’ age, and Emilie looked to be a few years older. 

“It’s great to meet you,” Stiles said, encouraging them to all sit. Peter made the first move and claimed an armchair close to the fireplace, his face hard to read. Stiles dropped down to sit on the floor, shoulder brushing up against Peter’s knee. 

Slowly, the Hunters and the werewolves moved onto the couch and the floor, not next to each other, but not avoiding nearness, either. 

Just as everyone had settled, there was a quick knock on the door, and Jiro came through the doorway, his expression pleased when he saw who was already assembled in the room. 

“Excellent,” he said. “I’m glad you’re all here. Satomi sent food for dinner, so no one has to cook tonight.” 

He tipped his head back to indicate the two werewolves behind him, who made noises of greeting and then quickly set down on the table in the dining room several large foil containers that smelled like pasta, tomatoes, and fresh bread. Satomi’s betas also provided a stack of disposable utensils, dinnerware, and napkins, then left.

Jiro saved everyone the trouble of working out hierarchical food issues and just dished out the baked ziti on enough plates for everyone, ordering them with a grin to dig in. The atmosphere thawed considerably as werewolves and Hunters alike stuffed themselves with meaty tomato sauce and melted cheese. 

Stiles slowed down after his first piece and leaned against Peter’s legs, content to sip his water and watch the interplay between the two groups. Peter fed Stiles a small bite of still-warm bread soaked in sauce and as Stiles chewed, he looked around the room, a happy, buoyant feeling rising in his chest. 

Gradually, the plates emptied and everyone pitched in to clean after the meal. Soon they were all sprawled comfortably around the large living room, Bastien exchanging high-school sports stories with Ethan and Danny, and Emilie and Luc chatting with Braeden. 

Chris and Allison sat near Peter, Stiles, and Jiro, and when there was a lull in their conversation, Stiles took a breath and nudged Peter’s leg. 

“Are things all set with the Dufort pack in Oregon?” Peter asked the Hunters. 

“The last time I talked to Chris, he was still trying to get the Hunters to coordinate with the wolf council,” Stiles said. 

“Oh, yes, everything went to plan in Oregon,” Chris replied, a rare, wicked smile appearing briefly on his lips. 

“Alpha Elizabeth Dufort will find that if she doesn’t stop hounding Stiles and start respecting the laws regarding peaceful passage through her lands that the government will suddenly become quite interested in requisitioning a significant chunk of her territory,” Jiro said. “She’s been trying for months to block the land grab. If only she knew the right people.”

“It’s a shame she’s so traditional about werewolf-human interactions,” Allison added, dimpling. “If she had learned how to play nicely with others, she might have had more influence.” 

“Thank you,” Stiles said fervently. He still had occasional nightmares about Elizabeth Dufort’s cold eyes and casual contempt. 

“She’s gone too long unchecked,” said Jiro sternly. “Her pack will be under probation for several years by the Assembly of Wolves.” 

“And she knows the Hunters are keeping an eye on her, too,” Chris said. 

The conversations around them quieted and there were a few minutes of congenial silence before Danny said, “I have to ask, Jiro—do you know what Derek’s former betas have decided to do?” 

Jiro let out a measured breath before answering. 

“Erica, Boyd, and Isaac plan to join the Kobayashi pack and stay in Beacon Hills. They told me right away. But the other wolf, Jackson….” Jiro frowned. “He doesn’t want to be part of a new pack here. I think it’s best that the council will force him to join someone else within a month, otherwise I worry he would spend too long looking for something he’s unlikely to find. He’s just turned eighteen, so he isn’t legally required to stay here with his parents. I think he and his girlfriend, the banshee, are making their own plans. I’ll be sorry to lose them.”

Danny nodded heavily. 

“Thanks for telling me,” he said. 

“So, I guess you guys are the only Hale pack now, huh?” Allison asked, changing the subject and giving Danny a sympathetic glance. 

“Actually, we’ve never been the Hale pack,” Braeden responded with a smirk. 

“There was some…disagreement over using one person’s name to define the entire group,” Peter said drily. 

“We’re not a traditional pack,” Braeden said. “Why should we follow traditional naming conventions?” 

“Why indeed?” Peter muttered, but his voice was fond. 

“So…what’s your pack name?” Allison asked. 

“We’re the Vagus pack,” Ethan said proudly. “It means _wandering_. In Latin.”

“I had suggested just calling ourselves the Wanderers,” said Danny, looking more himself. 

“But I preferred not to be the alpha of a folk revival group,” Peter said. 

“Not that it stopped Ethan from coming up with a pack song,” Braeden interjected. 

“It’s a work in progress,” Ethan said. 

“ _Outrageous_ is not a good rhyme with _vagus_ ,” Peter sighed. 

“It’s a work in progress,” Ethan repeated, shooting his alpha an annoyed look. “Besides, _yonder_ is a perfect rhyme for _wander_.”

“Could we have this discussion another time, please?” Peter asked plaintively, and Stiles tilted his head to the side to laugh up at his alpha. 

Peter ran an affectionate hand through Stiles’ hair and Stiles wrapped an arm around Peter’s calf. Jiro turned serious, compassionate eyes to Danny, who had had a slight smile on his face when listening to his pack bicker, but was still moodily running his hand over the arm of his chair. 

“Danny,” Jiro said, and waited until Danny raised his gaze to meet the alpha’s. “I’ll take care of Beacon Hills, and I’ll see your family safe to the best of my ability, I promise. The land here has been neglected for a long time, and I plan to bring it back into harmony with its guardians, the wolves. It helps that I’ll have some…untraditional assistance.”

Allison, dimples in full force, nodded. 

“We’re moving back. Working with the Assembly and with the Druid Council on this situation made us all realize how much more effectively we can deal with certain things if we communicate with each other. So the Argents will have a presence here, and we’ll work with the local packs and their emissaries,” she said. 

“California will be a nice change from Montreal,” Bastien spoke up. “I hear the winters are not so bad here.”

Stiles released a content sigh. Two strong werewolf packs, five forward-thinking Hunters, and at least a couple of druids left to guide and protect Beacon Hills. It was something he thought both his dad and Scott would have approved of. 

“Who will your emissary be, Jiro?” Braeden asked from across the room. 

“Alan Deaton recommended someone, and they’ll train with Satomi’s emissary and historian,” Jiro replied. “As will our new pack members. Boyd, especially, I think is interested in learning more about his legacy as a wolf. Who knows? Maybe he’ll prove to be a good historian.” 

Stiles thought of Boyd’s quiet approach to figuring the world out, how Isobel and Derek had taken advantage of his nature to discourage questions, and he thought maybe Boyd would be a decent choice for historian. Stiles was glad the good things about the former Hale pack betas could finally be nurtured…but he was also glad he didn’t have to stick around to see them regularly again. As much as Stiles wished them well, their treatment of him was far too fresh for ready forgiveness. 

“Kira has plans, too,” Jiro continued. “She’s worked with the Assembly of Wolves a few times as part of the Kobayashi pack, but now that we’re settling in somewhere for good, she’s going to focus on gaining representation for other non-wolf shifters, and more recognition from the druid and Hunter councils. Maybe in a few years the Assembly will have to change its name.” 

Jiro’s proud smile put to rest any lingering regret Stiles’ heart might have harbored at leaving his hometown behind permanently. Above him, Peter’s scent was calm and approving, and if there was a minute thread of melancholy, well, only Stiles was close enough to detect it. He gave Peter’s ankle a squeeze and leaned more of his weight against the alpha’s legs. 

As the fire slowly burned itself out, the gathered Hunters and wolves spent more time blinking sleepily and less time talking, until Allison herded the Argent clan out amidst hugs and, in a few cases, tears. 

Jiro exchanged good-nights and plans to keep in regular contact, then he, too, left for bed. Peter doused the last burning embers in the fireplace and saw his betas to their rooms before collecting a drowsy Stiles and walking him back to the bed they had planned to share. 

“Tired?” Peter asked, gently tugging Stiles’ limbs free of clothing. 

“Long day,” Stiles responded, letting Peter position his body however he wanted and taking every available opportunity to rub his scent on Peter’s skin. 

Peter laid Stiles out on the bed then stripped off his own clothing and climbed under the blankets.

“Would it be easier for you if we slept as wolves tonight?” Peter inquired, keeping a slight distance between their bodies. 

“No,” Stiles said, burrowing into Peter’s bare chest with a deep sigh, Peter’s higher body temperature warming him. Peter rumbled in reply, enveloping Stiles’ slighter form and gripping the back of his neck lightly. 

Stiles’ whole body felt flooded with a dizzying wash of _happy safe_ and his muscles relaxed in a blissful rush. He flushed when he realized other parts of him were responding, too. 

“Still tired?” Peter teased, keeping one hand around Stiles’ neck.

“Maybe not quite so tired,” Stiles admitted breathlessly. “Could you…can we….?”

Peter was silent for several moments. 

“I know the last few weeks have been intense,” Peter began.

“Stop,” Stiles ordered. “I want you. I want _this_.” 

He took Peter’s free hand and moved it down his body, until Peter’s fingers were circling Stiles’ hardening cock. Peter tightened his grasp and Stiles couldn’t contain his gasp. For a second, his mind darted toward the last time someone had touched him, remembering Derek’s downturned mouth and distant eyes. 

Then Peter shifted his fingers back, to softly trace the cleft of Stiles’ ass. Stiles clenched and released his muscles in response, feeling a growing wetness as Peter kept up the maddeningly slow movements. 

Peter went a little deeper on every upstroke, concentrating his motions until he was gently circling Stiles’ puckered opening and the omega was panting into his alpha’s shoulder. Stiles felt simultaneously pliant and tense, unable to move of his own volition and yet focused intensely on every twitch of Peter’s fingers. 

Peter growled and moved to loom over Stiles, caging him in. Stiles made a breathy sound of approval, his head swimming with the overwhelming scent of Peter and alpha. But Peter paused, his arm hovering in the air, fingers just short of touching Stiles’ aching cock again.

“This is what you want?” Peter asked, and Stiles realized Peter wasn’t teasing him: He wanted to hear confirmation that Stiles wanted the things Peter wanted. 

“Yes!” Stiles exclaimed, abandoning any hope at downplaying his desire. “Yes, alpha, Peter, please don’t stop.” 

The idea that Peter might leave him like this, hard and leaking and desperate, made Stiles cling to Peter’s muscled forearms in something like panic. Peter smiled darkly, eyes flashing once before fading back into blue. 

“All right, Stiles. I won’t stop.” 

The hand behind Stiles’ neck gave one last, firm grip, then moved to tangle in Stiles’ hair, angling his face up for Peter to meet him in a kiss. Stiles melted into it, yielding to the gentle but determined pressure of Peter’s tongue. Peter licked into Stiles’ mouth, letting their tongues mate and twine for long minutes. It was the best kiss Stiles could remember. Peter explored the plush, wet reaches of Stiles’ welcoming mouth leisurely and Stiles let Peter absorb his moans and sighs. 

They kissed until Stiles thought his lips would never be anything but red and swollen and the idea made his dick harden further, until it was too much for him to resist rutting into Peter’s hip. 

Peter drew back, running his finger across Stiles’ bottom lip until Stiles opened his mouth again. Peter took the invitation and pushed two fingers inside the wet heat of Stiles’ mouth, letting Stiles suck at them, swirling his tongue over the digits. 

“Good, that’s good,” Peter praised, pulling his fingers out and painting Stiles’ nipples with moisture. The small buds tightened as cool air hit them and Peter gripped one between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing with increasing pressure. 

Stiles bucked helplessly against Peter, slickness running down between his thighs. Peter made a deep, possessive noise and flipped Stiles over onto his knees and elbows. The thick fingers of one hand delved again between Stiles’ cheeks, rubbing harder this time against the sensitive stretch of skin in front of Stiles’ hole. 

“You’re perfect,” Peter murmured roughly, and Stiles looked back over his shoulder so he could take in Peter’s dilated pupils and the flush that crested his cheekbones. Peter’s blue eyes turned alpha red and his strong hands gripped Stiles’ hair and waist, immobilizing him. 

Stiles whimpered in excitement and frustration when he tried to bring his hips down and couldn’t move. Peter growled at him again, low and quiet in the back of his throat, and Stiles’ body obediently went limp. He knew his own eyes were glowing silver as he deliberately turned his head and bared his neck. 

Swiftly, Peter bent to set his teeth to the vulnerable skin, delicately worrying the point where Stiles’ neck met his shoulder. Stiles pushed against Peter’s hold on his hip, cock painfully erect. When Peter bit down harder, Stiles found his muscles moving instinctively, his spine finding a deeper arch and his knees widening. 

Peter released him and Stiles let his cheek press against the cool sheets, his shoulders flush with the mattress and his ass high in the air, spread for Peter’s gaze. Stiles felt Peter’s hands come to rest on his lower back and he whined, making small, frustrated thrusts into the air, his cock dripping. 

“What do you want, little wolf?” Peter asked in Stiles’ ear, brushing his lips against the hyper-sensitive curve before sinking his teeth into the lobe. 

“Please, alpha, please fuck me,” Stiles breathed, writhing in Peter’s hold and reveling in his restricted movements. He tested Peter’s imprisoning hands again and couldn’t hold back a shudder of delight when Peter didn’t free him. 

Peter circled Stiles’ slick hole with the pad of his index finger before pressing inward slowly but steadily. He gave Stiles a minute to adjust, nipping at his ear lobe and licking a hot stripe up the line of Stiles’ spine. When Stiles moaned and pushed back against the finger, Peter twisted it, loosening the muscle and working in a second finger next to the first. 

Stiles groaned at the gentle scissoring motion of Peter’s fingers, concentrating on the way his body adjusted and welcomed Peter’s invasion. 

“I’m ready,” Stiles insisted, gripping the sheets in both hands and trying to get Peter to move faster, to add another finger, to finally fuck him properly. 

“You may be ready,” Peter replied, rotating his wrist and letting his fingers brush against Stiles’ prostate in a way that made Stiles jerk and writhe, “but I’m not done yet.”

Stiles desperately rubbed his cheek against the soft cotton bedclothes and blushed at the faint squelching noises Peter’s movements were creating. His cock, neglected and aching, throbbed between his widely parted thighs. 

Finally, when Stiles was reduced to quivering and begging, Peter brought his cock to Stiles’ entrance and pushed forward in one, unhurried motion, wringing something between a squeal and a sigh from Stiles. Peter paused when he was as far as he could go, his hips pressed to Stiles’ slick, plush ass and his hands fitted around Stiles’ lean waist. 

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles got out in a wrecked voice. He heard Peter make a sound of approval above him and the part of Stiles that wanted to submit and please his alpha was wallowing in a sea of bliss. 

Peter at last began to move again, pulling back and then thrusting back into Stiles with an unrelenting rhythm that drove Stiles to sharp whimpers and embarrassingly high-pitched whining. He felt his body tense as Peter hit his prostate over and over, stimulating the sensitive gland with gratifyingly precise aim. 

“I’m going to—Peter, can I—” Stiles’ fingers scrabbled on the sheets as he tried to press back harder. 

“Come, Stiles,” Peter growled, the very tips of his claws digging into Stiles’ hips as he drove into the yielding omega beneath him. 

The words sent Stiles over the edge, all his muscles contracting before he felt the molten pleasure of release. Only Peter’s grip kept Stiles from melting into the bed, and Peter came a few seconds later, shaking and groaning and bringing Stiles with him as he collapsed onto his side. 

They lay there in sweaty rapture for an indeterminate length of time, until the smeared fluids all over Stiles’ body started to cool, making him feel less like he had ascended to a higher level of delight and more like he was going to dearly regret it if he didn’t shower very soon. 

He poked Peter’s side, eliciting a tired-sounding grunt and one blue eye cracked in his direction. 

“Let’s shower,” Stiles suggested, trying to escape the iron bands that were Peter’s arms around him. 

“In a minute,” Peter mumbled, closing his eye and drawing Stiles, impossibly, closer to his chest. A damp chest. Stiles grimaced. 

“Shower,” he urged, tugging at Peter’s arms fruitlessly. 

Stiles was considering his next stage of escape when Peter’s fingers suddenly attacked the vulnerable area just below his ribs. Startled and ticklish, Stiles yelped, trying to squirm away from the relentless and persistent strokes. 

“S-s-stop!” Stiles howled, laughing until tears came to his eyes. “Not-not f-fair!” 

Peter took ruthless advantage of his greater strength and longer reach, pinning Stiles down on his back with both wrists trapped in one hand, leaving the other available to map out every ticklish spot on Stiles’ body. 

By the end of the impromptu exploration, Stiles was wet-faced and wrung-out from teary laughter and Peter was giving him the widest smile Stiles had seen on his alpha’s face. The tickling was playful and silly and also a way for Stiles to feel deliciously overpowered and dominated without also feeling demeaned or belittled.

He blinked up at Peter and tugged at his captive wrists. Peter released him immediately, sitting back with a curious expression. 

“Thank you,” Stiles said. “I just…there are a lot of things I never got to figure out about myself before I was turned, and before I became…an omega, I guess. I hated it when I was with Derek’s pack, all the-the instincts and assumptions. But…it’s more complicated than I thought, being the way I am. It’s…not all bad. When I’m with you, it’s…good.” 

“Being with you is good for me, too,” Peter replied, face soft and more open than Stiles could ever remember it being. 

“I’m glad,” Stiles whispered, tucking his legs under him and rising to Peter’s eye level. Stiles leaned forward to press his lips against Peter’s forehead then sank down to his heels. 

Peter took a breath and released it and Stiles felt something settle in the alpha, their bond humming and their scents intertwined. The harmony spread to his other pack bonds, strengthening the cords that bound them all together, smoothing out the ragged spots and warming every connection with a glow of happiness. 

\- X -

Breakfast was both new and familiar the next morning—the pack was its usual combination of friendly and drowsy, but there was a steady flame of _love_ and _family_ burning in all of them that had been ignited the night before in their bonds. Ethan made an egg-and-mushroom scramble on a truly enormous scale, and somehow the five of them finished it all off, in addition to toast and two pots of coffee.

Stiles sat on Peter’s lap, wanting closeness after the events of the day before. Peter didn’t seem to mind at all, if his satisfied alpha face was any indication. His brain was probably saturated in alpha-provider chemicals, Stiles thought in amusement. Not that Stiles objected, of course. 

Danny left after breakfast to reunite and sort things out with his family. Stiles knew Peter was worried Danny would decide to stay in Beacon Hills after seeing his mother and sister again, but the alpha was determined to let Danny make his choice free of guilt or pressure. 

Ethan, who was looking restless and anxious, went with Braeden to shoot at practice targets with the Argents. 

That left Stiles and Peter, who shared clean-up duties before walking together to Satomi’s house to thank her in person. They said their farewells, Stiles exchanging lingering hugs with Jiro, Ume, and Kira, and promising regular updates on both sides. 

Once Peter and Stiles were back outside, Stiles shoved his hands in the pockets of his tweed trousers and glanced up at a distant cloud in the otherwise sunny sky.

“I need to go see them,” he said to the cloud. He sensed rather than saw Peter’s nod of agreement. 

“Would you like me to drive?” Peter asked. 

“Nah,” Stiles replied, the hint of a grin flashing across his face. “I had Jiro grab something for me from Derek’s place last night.” 

He guided Peter around to the back of Satomi’s estate, where one of her betas was just tightening the last bolt on a new set of tires for the blue Jeep sitting in front of the garage. 

“I’m taking her back up with me to the pack house,” Stiles informed Peter. “She might need some more work later, but she should make the drive okay.” 

“All right,” Peter replied, putting a hand on the small of Stiles’ back. Stiles leaned into the touch, dropping his head against Peter’s arm with a relieved sigh. 

“Let’s go say hello. And good-bye,” Stiles said, thanking the Ito pack beta profusely and getting into the driver’s seat of his Jeep. Peter swung around to the passenger’s side and they made the short drive to the Beacon Hills Cemetery in silence. 

Stiles got out first, walking up the grassy path to a place where two modest headstones stood side-by-side. He stared at the names until his eyes blurred from tears, then sank down to sit by his parents’ graves. 

“It’s been a while. I’m sorry. I was…I wasn’t able to come for a bit there. I thought about you, though. Both of you. A lot. Things were bad for a long time. I really missed you.” Stiles paused, then leaned forward to trace a finger over the letters of _Loving Father_ on Noah’s marker. “I’m sorry, dad. I’m so sorry. If I had told you—if I had warned you….” He drew in an uneven breath. “But, as good old Dr. O’Connor says, blaming myself doesn’t help you and it hurts me.” Stiles felt his mouth twist up in a rueful smile. “You’d like her. She doesn’t take any bullshit. And things are better now. I have a new pack, a better one. I’m…happy, I think. Or I’m getting there.”

He sat for a long time, letting the sun shine on the three of them without speaking. Finally, he brushed a hand over both headstones and murmured another good-bye, along with a promise to come back. 

The walk to his next destination was short, and when he knelt by the single headstone, he saw freshly cut flowers. 

“Hey, Scott,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get out here sooner. Stuff went pretty bad with Derek. It’s better now, though. I’m actually with Peter’s pack, if you can believe it. It turns out Peter makes a pretty good alpha when he’s not out of his freaking mind.” Stiles rested his chin on his palm and looked up at the sky through overhanging branches, their leaves beginning to turn autumn gold. 

“I wish we could’ve been werewolves together, Scotty. How amazing would that have been? You never got to make the full shift, but it’s…awesome. You would have loved it.” Stiles straightened slowly, his words becoming choked. “I miss you. I miss you so much. There are a million times I see something cool and I want to turn around to tell you and you’re not there.” He brushed an impatient hand across his eyes then put his hands in his pockets. “I’m doing what I can to make things better. In Beacon Hills. In the world. I think about you a lot, you and my dad.” Stiles took one hand out of his pocket to give Scott’s headstone a gentle pat. “I’m going to go now, but I’ll be back. I’ll keep an eye on your town, I promise. I won’t forget.” 

Stiles moved slowly through the graves, seeing the names of families he knew as he entered the oldest part of the cemetery. Peter stood in the shadow of a memorial, both arms braced on the cold marble. 

“Most of the bodies were burned so badly there wasn’t much to bury,” Peter said as Stiles approached. “Laura had this made instead of individual graves.”

Stiles read the names of Kate Argent’s victims and put an arm around Peter’s waist in quiet solidarity. 

“I make myself sit by the fireplace sometimes,” Peter continued, stiff in Stiles’ embrace. “For hours. Until I can't stand hearing the noise and everything smells like ash to me." 

After a long while, Peter relaxed enough to turn and wrap his own arms around Stiles’ shoulders, resting his cheek against the top of Stiles’ head with a sigh.

“Let’s go,” said Stiles, taking Peter’s hand and pulling him toward the exit. Peter followed without protest, but instead of going back to the Jeep, Stiles took them to an overlook point, high above the city and the preserve. 

They stared out at the gently waving ocean of burgeoning fall foliage, and the jagged tops of buildings and homes. 

“Are you going to regret not trying to be the alpha here?” Stiles asked, still holding Peter’s hand. 

“There were guardians of this land before the Hales settled here,” Peter said, looking out over the landscape of trees and rocks and hills that he had grown up in. “Everything is ephemeral, Stiles, given a long enough timeline. The Hales had their time here. Some of us were good stewards and some of us weren’t. But we’re diminished now, and that’s all right. Derek wants to redeem himself…I believe he can. He won’t get another chance at being the alpha, but he could turn out to be a decent beta for his new pack. And the Hale lands will be held by wolves who care enough to keep them healthy. That’s enough for me.” 

Peter and Stiles watched the sun climb in the sky until the vista before them was bathed in light, the far-off windows of the town winking and sparkling and the trees of the preserve glowing green and vibrant. Then they turned back to climb into the old Jeep and rattle their way downtown. 

Stiles took them to his favorite diner, where he ordered curly fries and a chocolate milkshake and an indecently tasty hamburger. Peter devoured a double cheeseburger and shamelessly finished off most of Stiles’ milkshake while they waited for the rest of the pack to meet them. 

Braeden and Ethan arrived first, Braeden munching on the remains of Stiles’ fries while Ethan got distracted discussing the difference between ground chuck and ground sirloin in the chili. He had just moved on to which beans stood up the best to long hours of simmering when Danny walked in the door. 

Ethan stopped talking when Danny sat down next to him, just squeezed Danny’s hand as the rest of the pack tried not to look wildly curious. 

“I’m going to need to come back here to visit,” Danny said. 

“But you’re staying with us,” said Stiles, feeling the strong thrum of Danny’s pack bond in his mind. 

“Vagus pack for life,” Danny answered, smiling at him. 

Stiles could feel Peter’s relief and joy as the alpha put his hand on Danny’s shoulder in a brief but heartfelt grip. 

“Thank you,” Peter said, and Stiles felt the pack bonds resonate with the strength of his emotion. The betas all exuded contentment and Stiles pressed closer to Peter as a wave of peace washed over him. 

“So what was the final verdict?” Danny asked after a few minutes. “Did Ethan recommend kidney beans or pinto beans?” 

“I think a combination of different kinds makes the best texture,” Ethan replied. “A bigger question is whether the cornbread I’d serve with chili has just cornmeal or actual pieces of fresh corn.”

“Well, Stiles is the expert there,” Braeden said, spooning up the last of Stiles’ milkshake. 

“Uh, I don’t think I’ve ever made cornbread,” Stiles realized. 

“We’re happy to eat any and all experimental batches,” Danny assured him.

“You should write a cookbook,” Ethan said. 

“I’m actually thinking about writing a mystery,” Stiles replied, and Peter looked down at him with fondness and pride. 

“Seems fitting for the son of a sheriff,” Peter commented. 

“Maybe it could be about a bakery owner who helps his cop boyfriend solve cases,” Danny suggested. 

Braeden rolled her eyes upward with an amused noise.

“If I had a nickel for every time the realities of law enforcement were overlooked in fiction….” she muttered. 

“But Stiles knows what he’s talking about,” Ethan put in. “And maybe he could include a recipe section.”

Stiles let their conversation fade into pleasant background noise as he rested his head against Peter’s shoulder and twined their fingers together under the table.

“Thank you,” Peter murmured, bending down to direct the quiet words into Stiles’ ear. 

Stiles tipped his head back to see Peter better, the alpha’s warm scent surrounding him with _safe_ and _content_ and _loved_. 

“What for?” Stiles whispered back. 

“Trusting me,” said Peter, his lips leaving behind a tiny kiss on the shell of Stiles’ ear. "Loving me."

“Always.” Stiles drew Peter’s arm around him and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, and/or commented during this fic's journey to completion! I've loved reading and responding :) 
> 
> I may write little side stories that take place post-ending. Does Derek redeem himself? How does Stiles' relationship with the pack evolve? Who becomes the pack historian? Do we care where Jackson and Lydia end up? Hmmm.


End file.
